


Master Shot

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Film Industry Homophobia, Film-Making, Films, M/M, Merlin/Gwaine - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2018-10-14 20:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Arthur Pendragon and Merlin Emrys are actors who get cast in director's Jonathan Drake new film, a war drama that is being marketed as Pearl Harbor meets Brokeback. The only problem is that while they play lovers on screen, with plenty of steamy scenes serving as proof of their fictional feelings, in reality they dislike each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by archaeologist_d. Thank you so much for beating this into shape!

“Have you found the leads yet?” Alun Taliesin, executive producer, asked, using the leverage all producers worldwide enjoyed, the astounding amounts of money they could pour into production or withdraw at their will.

“It is renowned that casting the leads is the most difficult of processes,” Drake said.

As a matter of fact he had had been sent folders full of actors' CVs and head shots to skim. The Casting Director, Nimueh Lake, had been really thorough. She had left no one from the age of twenty to thirty-five out of her list of palatable candidates. There was a bit of everything to choose from: classically trained actors, actors who were not really such and whose only claim to glory was having participated in some reality show or other, and silver screen actors who had at least a few solid blockbusters under their belt, but little formal training.

Never mind the fact that the marketing team had already advertised it as Pearl Harbor meets Brokeback.

Even though they were at a pre-production stage, Drake had already story-boarded the opening master shot and knew that this, his untitled project number 13, was going to be a cinematic masterpiece.

If only he had his way.

“But have you narrowed the list down to at least six actors?” Taliesin asked, pulling Drake back from his thoughts. “We can predict box-office trends on the basis of statistics from previous years, which is why I think you should opt for a renowned name.”

Drake found that positively insulting. Thinking of the box-office now would compromise the production values, the soul of his project, and limit his scope.

“But that would compromise my vision,” he growled. The mere idea made him very angry. He was fuming. “This is a romantic tale of love and loss!” he stressed. "The two leads must click, make it look like they're two sides of the same coin.” He twined and locked the fingers of his two hands together to describe what he meant. “They must have chemistry first and foremost as well as the necessary training to pull off the right 'I'll love you till I die, we're destined to be together' vibe.”

Taliesin made a little noise in his throat that could have been read as agreement or the opposite. He leaned forward, pressed the intercom button and asked his secretary for two cups of his favourite ginseng tisane. “I see what you mean,” he said, sinking back against the shiny black leather of his office chair. “But let's be honest. What is it that pulls viewers in? Fame! We could hire the best thespian the British stage has to offer, and we still wouldn't be selling tickets. For our product to be marketable...”

“We need a destined love story!” Drake pressed.

“Perhaps,” Taliesin conceded. “Look at the Titanic. But we also need faces people will recognise.”

Drake thundered. “A pretty, famous face won't win critical acclaim.”

They were interrupted by Taliesin's secretary, who marched in bearing a tray laden with two cups full to the brim with an aromatic liquid. The girl, blonde, pretty and petite, served the ginseng, beginning with Drake first. Then she passed the other cup to Taliesin, who accepted it politely. She ran her hands down her pencil skirt as if to smooth it down, a gesture that was pointless, since the shimmery fabric still was perfectly pressed, and asked, “Anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you,” Taliesin answered, inclining his head and dismissing the pretty secretary. She tottered to the door, perching on vertiginous heels.

“I might see your point,” Taliesin said once they were alone again. “But that, alas, doesn't change the grim reality of show business. People flock to see the latest Tom Cruise flick regardless of the subject or quality of the film itself. We need something to draw our viewers in, a mixture of a pretty face and big name that is instantly recognisable.”

Drake had an answer ready. He inched forward so that he was sitting on the edge of his seat, a hand on Taliesin's desk. “We do not need that. A recognisable face would be too... recognisable.” He sought to define that. “People would be watching famous actor X on screen. They wouldn't be rooting for our war torn characters.”

Taliesin smacked his lips and tapped his fingers on his desk. He swivelled in his chair, looking out the wall sized window that overlooked the Thames. The view was spectacular and breathtaking, but Drake was sure it wasn't what Taliesin was concentrating on. He was seeing the future. Future profit margins.

“I understand,” he began again, “that you scripted this and are going to direct. This is a very dear project to you.” He paused and hummed under his breath, turning around a little to grab a hold of the cup his secretary had left on a coaster. He lifted it daintily by the handle and took a sip. “The script calls for a traditionally handsome man, at least for the role of Thomas Sutton, future war hero who sacrifices everything to make his father proud and serve his country. Cast a pretty boy to play him. A famous pretty boy.”

Drake didn't want to give in, but recognised an overture when he saw one. “And if I do?”

“Then you get to hire a talented no-one you can mould into the role of Daniel Ambrose. You can trawl the British stages to find him and I don't care if you recruit him from the RSC or discover him when he's starring in a West-End production or even if he happens to do voice-overs for nature documentaries. You can have him.” He turned fully to gaze at Drake. “But at least give me one famous name!”

Drake thought about it. All he had to do was find a couple that could mesh well on screen. And if its one half was more famous than the other, he was sure he could still make it work. “Alright,” he conceded. “I'll do as you ask.”

“That is very well,” Taliesin said, looking satisfied. “Let me know as soon as you've settled on a name.”

Drake stood and inclined his head. Sometimes he wished he had the stature and the physical width required to bend men into acquiescence. He'd need to be as big as a dragon in order to impress Mr Taliesin.

He left, as he'd come, raging.

 

****

“It is true that the interest in you is waning, Arthur,” Father said thoughtfully. “It is also true that a film like that may bring you an unwanted kind of publicity, may link your name to a product that won't be mainstream unless it's Academy-acknowledged.” He leafed through the pages of the spiral-bound script they'd been sent by Myrddin Productions and sighed stiffly as only he could. No relaxation of his chest and spine; Father's way of sighing made him only appear even more unbending than before he'd exhaled.

Arthur let that go. “That's because I haven't been in anything since last summer and the films I was in were all action oriented or thrillers of the kind you forget twenty minutes after having seen them,” Arthur said, intrigued by the potential of the script he'd read over the past few days. He'd started off disinterested and caught himself turning the pages to find out how the story ended. The finale was very satisfying from an actor's standpoint.

In a diversion manoeuvre worthy of a field general, Father moved from behind his dwarfing but pristine desk to go and sit on the sofa. He didn't forget to pick-up Arthur's copy of the working script.

Arthur turned in his chair to be able to follow him with his eyes.

“I don't know,” Father said, crossing his legs at the ankles. He used his knee as support for the volume and started flipping the script's pages. He settled on one he seemed to find interesting and read it out loud.

“LONG SHOT: The camera pans to show two figures on the bed. The bedroom is dark, but pale light streams in from the window.” He continued with gusto, using his modulated, cultured voice, “Now the camera pans left to right, from the window to the undone bed. We see two men lying between the sheets. It's Thomas and Daniel. They're both clearly naked; we can see Thomas' back and buttocks as he rocks into Daniel, kissing his mouth and neck. Daniel's legs are draped around his waist, whose body is strategically covering the other man's groin. The camera follows the lines of Thomas' back as his hips thrust forward.” There was a salacious undertone to father's voice here. Nevertheless, he reads on, “The camera moves out, panning left. CLOSE UP: their hands clasped over their heads, fingers entwined. The camera pans out and right again, out the window.” Father cleared his throat while Arthur scanned the intense blaze in the fireplace.

“I read it all,” Arthur answered his father's unspoken challenge. “I think it could put my name out there again. Make them see that I can do more than my own stunts. This is quite a psychological, character driven, action- adventure kind of thing. It could be an excellent showcase of what I can do.”

Father hummed, wetting his fingertip to turn the pages, an old habit of his that he'd never got rid of. “There's quite a lot of nudity and explicit scenes in this, Arthur. Do you want to be associated with something of this nature?”

“There are no full frontals involved,” Arthur said. “And yeah, some scenes will give this an 18 rating, but it's also a war drama. They're even requiring stunt skills, which I have. And there's a lot of tension involved. It's a they meet, they fall, they have to part, he fights honourably kind of....”

“The homosexual element is key, Arthur,” Father said. He pursed his lips. “Journalists will question your sexuality; you might be typecast after and it's not even sure to be a success or win critical acclaim. Just because it looks innovative, it doesn't mean it is. Or that it's going to be good for your career.”

“It's a far cry better than anything I've done for the past three years!” Arthur exclaimed, rising to pace. “I'm good, father. I'm one of the best! And yet I keep doing and re-doing the same thing.”

“As your agent,” Father said, “I have to tell you that you have conventional leading man looks, apart from a few imperfections. That is why you keep getting offered the same kind of thing, as you define it, over and over again.”

Father tossed the script on the coffee-table and looked at the manicured lawn visible from the window. “Yet that is safe. This,” he gestured at the script, “isn't. More so, it's all based on you and your future, whoever he may be, co-star actually finding a decent dynamic. Otherwise, you realise, it might be awkward.”

Arthur had realised, thank you very much, that he'd have to get cosy with this person, whoever they chose to cast. But he was an actor, had shot a number of sex-scenes as a matter of fact, though maybe none as no-holds-barred as the ones described in the script he'd just submitted to his father. He was a professional. He'd talk with his co-star: cross the Ts and dot the Is, state how he saw it and everything would fall into place. He'd done it before; he'd kissed and panted and sighed for the camera and he'd barely been friends with the people involved. Besides, he hadn't been attracted to any man since his teens, so there would be none of that, this-may-be-real-crap to deal with at the end of the day. He never mingled business with pleasure anyway; the closest he'd come was dating a second unit assistant a few years ago.

Instead, he said, “I want a shot at being recognised.”

“Arthur.” Father shook his head. “You're famous already. You were on three talk shows last week alone. You were asked to do a photo shoot in Paris for the Cinema Revue,” he said pointedly. “That's the kind of publicity you need. That's what will get you hired again and again. Not this. This is high-risk, Arthur.”

“I'll never be as good as her if I don't take a chance now and then.”

Father's face grew stormy. “Those were different times, Arthur. I strongly advise you not to accept this role. Drake directed and scripted this and some of his previous work is so cryptic nobody but him understands it.”

“This is pretty straightforward plotwise,” Arthur objected. “It's a romantic war drama.”

“He'll throw in an expressionistic shot or twenty-two,” Father sneered. “You'd only be doing him a favour.”

Arthur said, “Even better.” He paused, breathing deep before continuing. “I'll be the undisputed star of this thing.”

“You'll have to share top-billing,” Father reminded him, staring longingly at his wine bar. He probably wanted to drown his sorrows in alcohol.

“Maybe not,” Arthur said. He walked over to the sofa, white rug muffling his footsteps, and placed his hands around the sofa's backrest, leaning in. “Maybe I can require top-billing over whoever or refuse to sign in. Morgana said she's heard some inside-rumours. They want a relative new-comer to play Daniel. He'll be so happy he has a role at all, he'll take anything. And they'll give me what I want because I have leverage.”

“The responsibility,” Father said curtly, “falls on your shoulders. Don't expect to see me at the première.”

****

The theatre was full to overflowing, audience in place. The stage was carefully lit, the costumes were just right, but the play was unredeemed and utter crap. Drake snorted almost at every line that was uttered. Not so much because the actors failed to deliver them meaningfully. Most of them were professionals and could pull them off almost believably, but the writing that was supposed to be controversial and meaningful was just simply pedestrian. Not even James Burbadge himself could have done anything to save those lines.

The director had even been trying, attempting to give an edgy cut to the chosen script by way of transplanting the story to a different setting, and telling wardrobe to underline the displacement feel of the piece thanks to a few minimalistic choices. Yet Drake was not sold.

Until the kid who played Benny, or generic angry youth A (who was a pale imitation of Osborne's lost young men), appeared on stage and made him feel the panic of a life lived at the edge of a knife. Made him feel what it was to try to appear to fit in and always fail to. Made him see what it was to be skating on thin ice, daring and daring to be heard or recognised. Till the actor gave an outstanding death-scene performance that made John Drake, theatre aficionado, old friend of John Gielgud, actually cry at the loss of a misunderstood simple spirit.

It had been the mimicry, the lost tremulous voice that grew gritty and defiant to downright passionate when it needed to be that had done the trick. It had been the body-language, half awkward, half-cocky that had sold him the script, the innocent smirks, the jaded looks, the soft smiles and wide eyes. Nothing was over the top; nothing exceeded the bounds of what felt to be pitched right, even if the script went the wrong way more than a few times.

Dabbing at his eyes, Drake leant towards Nimueh and said, “I think we've got him.”

“He's quite good,” Nimueh agreed. “He's promising.” She pulled her hair behind her ears and turned to murmur, “But isn't he too green? I've never seen him in anything else.”

“Which is why,” Drake said, elated, thus garnering a few punitive, 'hush for God's sake' from his neighbours, “he'll only be recognised as Daniel. With that talent, Nimueh, he can make it raw.”

Even in the darkened pit, all the lights focused on the stage, it was clear she was wavering. “I don't know. A kitchen sink drama is one thing. Our project,” she whispered, “is something else. Requires a different breadth. I could pull his CV, see if he's done anything classical.”

“Can't you discuss this somewhere else?” an old lady a row behind asked. Drake ignored her, lay person that she clearly was.

He ploughed on unconcerned, “I want him!” He started making expansive movements with his hands. “My script is far better than this claptrap; think of what that boy could do with my words. His voice alone, you're bound to sympathise.”

“You're quite smitten,” Nimueh jeered. “Maybe you should invite him out to dinner.”

“No!” Drake protested. “I'm meeting him backstage. Giving him the script. He's the first young actor I can see in Daniel's role.”

“As you wish.” Nimueh gave up, but just because they were attracting too much attention to themselves a few minutes too close to the play's finale. Drake wasn't interested in its ending; he wanted to chase the boy who played Benny and sign him.

When you where Johnathan Drake, director, it was pretty easy to gain access to any theatre's dressing rooms. Merlin Emrys, the play's Benny, didn't qualify a personal one; he shared with two other male actors, who respectively played Mike and Jordan. When Drake knocked on the semi-opened door, these two individuals sprang to attention, stopping in the middle of removing their make-up. Their expressions, reflected in the large lit mirrors they were making use of, bore the stamp of surprised excitement.

“Mr Drake!” the first one said excitably. “It's an honour to see you here. Did you see the play?”

The other one, a robust red-haired fellow who had a Scottish accent he'd got rid of during the play, said, “Oh my god, I hope you liked it. We were really pulling our weight.”

Emrys hadn't noticed his presence yet, busy as he was lifting his shirt over his head, revealing the type of lanky, could possibly pass for war-starved look (though it was mere young man leanness) that he'd been envisaging for this role. If he cast a strong, muscled man as Thomas, the contrast would be poignant, he reflected gleefully. They'd match visually. One strong and trying to appear more so in the face of his fears and doubts; the other appearing weaker, but strong willed and determined, a force to be reckoned with. Not to mention the hotness factor of two bodies... Well, yes. That too.

“Young man,” said Drake, addressing young Merlin Emrys, who was now naked to the waist, the dilapidated combat trousers he'd worn on stage as part of his character's outfit the only thing making him presentable. “I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”

This time Emrys reacted. He dropped the shirt he'd just wrested off himself and gaped. “You're... you are.” The power to form words seemed to have momentarily left him, till he recovered and said, “Yes, sure. We can. I... Let me put on a shirt and yes.” He dove for a clean shirt, which he found in a hold-all someone had left near a rickety old chair. He put it on quickly.

“Could you leave us alone for a moment or two?” Drake asked of the two young men present.

“Of course,” and “Sure,” they said, deflating immediately. Red-hair's back curved in defeat as he marched out after his companion.

Now Emrys could be properly approached.

“I think you know who I am,” he said.

Merlin nodded, biting his lip. He seemed to understand an answer was required and added, “Jonathan Drake, the director of Camelot.”

“I prefer Rebels at Sunset, young man”

Emrys laughed. “Me too. I'm not that much into fantasy.”

“How do you feel about war dramas?” Drake enquired, sitting on a mirrored table wedged between a costume rack and a small sink.

Emrys shuffled in place. “I loved Saving Private Ryan,” he deadpanned. “Oh and the Dunquerque master shot in Atonement.”

Drake rubbed his hands together. “I think I may have a role for you,” he declared.

Emrys' eyes, very blue and very innocent looking, widened. “Really?”

“Let's say,” Drake continued, eyeing the young man in front of him and mentally adapting shots and lightning calls to suit his quirky features and his all-angles body, “That I want to see you read opposite someone else.”

“You want me to audition?” Emrys asked flabbergasted. “As in...”

Drake whipped out a copy of his script and said, “Yes, young man. How am I supposed to hire you otherwise?”

“Do you want me to prepare a cattle-call-like monologue?” Emrys asked tentatively.

“I'll want you to see you perform a scene out of my script.”

Emrys grinned, “Is there a way to find out which one?”

Drake laughed. “Oh, no,” he answered between chuckles. “I want to see you emote. I want to see you improvise.” He left a message with an address and date for the audition on the dressing table. See you there,” he intoned majestically, sweeping out of the room.

****

He turned his key in the lock so gingerly that he could feel the tumblers give. He needed to be silent since it was two AM and he didn't want to wake up his flatmate, Gwen. He opened the door as noiselessly as he could and went into the tiny, sparsely furnished space he and Gwen called their living-room. Lights still religiously off, he kicked his shoes off, clutching at the script as if it were a life-line. He tried to hang his jacket on the coat-hanger next but succeeded in doing it lopsidedly. He'd never been particularly good at managing to keep things neat and tidy. Bummer. He cursed under his breath.

The lights were turned on abruptly and he was caught like a thief in the night. It was Gwen. She was wearing her pyjamas and the pink dressing gown Merlin had given her on her birthday. Her hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail and her feet were encased in slippers. She hadn't been sleeping, but she'd certainly been about to go to bed.

“You waited up?” he asked, warmed.

She walked over to him and helped him hang the jacket better so that he wouldn't find it all creased in the morning. She tugged him by the hand and led him to the sofa. She sat there, her legs tucked under her, and dragged him down.

He went, despite feeling jittery.

“So how did it go?” she asked anxiously. “Did you talk to the director? Did he offer you another role after wrap-up?”

Merlin pulled a sad face just because he couldn't not, but then he exploded in a grin he could barely control, pushing the script he'd been holding onto all night into Gwen's hands. She took it from him and read the first page. When she looked up she had a stunned expression on.

“This is a script,” she muttered, “for a Jonathan Drake film!” This last bit was screeched. Then she said, “You know I'm called Gwen after Camelot's Guinevere, don't you? My mum was quite the fan. I've watched plenty of the man's films, though personally I prefer Meeting at Midnight. Oh my God,” she said, throwing her arms around his middle and clinging tight, mumbling against his neck, her breath minty, warm and tickly. “This could be your breakthrough.”

Given that she had her head buried in his neck, Merlin was choking on her curly locks, at least a little, but he managed to say, “I know, it sounds great, doesn't it?” He hugged her tight and rubbed her shoulders. “But hold your horses. I've got to audition first.”

“And when may I show my enthusiasm?” Gwen asked airily, pulling back a little.

“When I get a callback?”

Gwen studied his features. “Predictably superstitious like all actors.” She narrowed her eyes at him but it was clear she was just pretending to be put out. “But how did you get to Drake? Did your agent pull off a miracle? Did you answer a casting call? Did the play's director put in a few good words?”

“Wow, Gwen, you can breathe between one question and the next.” Merlin smiled dopily. It was like a dream come true. So he could understand her reaction. But he didn't want to jinx this. “He was in the audience tonight,” he explained. “He followed me into the dressing room when the third act was almost over and gave me the script.”

“Oh,” said Gwen. “And which role are you reading for?”

Merlin deflated. If he'd been less astounded to find himself facing Drake, a man he'd only watched release interviews on the telly, he'd have probably had the presence of mind to ask a few relevant questions. Like the one Gwen had just formulated. As it was, he'd plain forgotten to. It was a miracle Drake hadn't thought him downright stupid. “I'm afraid I don't know.”

“You don't know which role you're reading for?”

Merlin hummed. “Well, no, and I suppose it's a minor one, but still I'm pretty excited.” He passed his free hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. “It could look pretty impressive on my CV. Potentially. If I get it.”

“Oh,” Gwen said, melting against him once more. “I'm so very happy for you, Merlin. If there's anyone who deserves it, it's you.”

Merlin couldn't help but smile. “You're a bit biased, Gwen.”

“Perhaps,” she admitted, yawning against his chest. “But I'm sure you'll leave them speechless. I cried when I saw you die on stage.”

“That's because you cry over Bambi, Gwen.”

“Everybody who has a heart does,” Gwen chided him, but released another muffled yawn.

Merlin scooted back to better study her. “Gwen, you're falling asleep. Go to bed like any good nine to fiver.”

“Mock us normal mortals as much as you want,” Gwen said, not offended in the least. “I'm not listening to you.”

“Go to sleep, my lady,” he repeated in his best stage voice. She always liked it when he did it.

She had already got to her feet when she said, “You cheat. You know that always gets me.” She padded over to her bedroom and repeated, “I'm so happy for you, Merlin. Night.”

“Good night, Gwen.”

 

****

 

Arthur strode down the white-washed and aseptic corridor leading to the Casting Director's offices at Myrddin Productions. He was miffed, to put it mildly. It wasn't because he was early and didn't know what to do to kill time between now and the read through. No, it was because of the indignity of the read through itself. If the fifteen films and two shorts he'd starred in the past four years weren't enough to form an opinion of his acting abilities, then he didn't know what would be.

He hadn't been asked to audition in years, mostly because he was often contacted as the person the producer or director had had in mind from the get go. This time Ms Lake had told Morgana, who was Father's second in command, that he would have to audition opposite another actor to see if they worked well together on camera. She'd said they were looking for a 'spark'. As if, Arthur snorted out loud.

As it was, he would have no time to run lines with this person and he would be hired or not on the basis of a fluke. Something entirely accidental. He didn't like the idea one bit, to be honest.

The truth was, he had to admit this to himself, he wasn't good at connecting with his colleagues. That was the part he liked the least about the casting process and was glad he'd been able to skip a lot of the most annoying stages of it during the past few years. On set things came easy; he was conscientious, he'd always worked hard and his fellow actors always – mostly – acknowledged that.

Now though he would have to go through the ordeal again. He might have walked out on this; Father would be happy if he did, but he wanted the role and so had to bow his head and do as he was told.

He was so incensed that he was barely seeing where he was going. This was the reason why he bumped right into someone who was standing there like a sack of potatoes.

This someone was a beanpole of a man with satellite dishes for ears who sported that kind of partially ethereal, partially whimsical look that could have been called interesting if it wasn't weird.

He was slim and reedy but for his broad shoulders. To complete the barely-out-of-my-teenage years look, Dumbo was wearing jeans, a t-shirt that surely had seen better days, and a white-grey zip-up hoodie that was at least a size too big. He wrote him off as a lackey of some kind.

The irrelevance of this personage should have calmed him, but Arthur was so irritated that he spoke before he'd considered what he should say. “Why don't you go and tell your boss that if I have to wait here for longer than two minutes, I'll consider signing with Miramax instead? And oh, on your way there, why don't you get me a coffee?” He added dismissively, “No sugar.”

The man looked both miffed and outraged at that. Arthur supposed he could have been politer about the whole thing, but this man was provoking him into not backing off. In fact Dumbo stiffened all over and glared at him in a way no one had since Arthur had been a school kid.

Nowadays people fawned; they didn't glare.

“Do you know who I am?” Arthur asked, now completely out of control. He even took off his anti-stalker sun glasses to better glare at the big-eared Puck.

The latter looked him from head to foot, acknowledging him and his gesture. A derisive smirk appeared on his lips as a result of this. It only went away when the man said, “Arthur Pendragon: Mr I'm in films so dumb a six year old finds them stupid. Mr I always play the same idiotic, no depth to it crap because it gets me on Letterman and ohhh, I can date leggy blondes if I star in those things. Mr I can beat a cabbage in the no soul department.”

Arthur crowded the man, now positively enraged. Who was this little pretentious shit of a PA? True, his roles in the last few years had lacked depth and variety, but he'd always done his best with the scripts he got, and this, this was outrageous.

It wasn't as if he'd written them. He wasn't bad. He'd studied formally, for God's sake. “How dare you and who are you?”

“Merlin Emrys,” Puck said, not stepping back. His nostrils flared.

Arthur laughed. With all the training he'd done to fit the image of leading man, he could probably take this man apart. He tried hulking over him, but had to find to his eternal consternation that Jack the Beanstalk was actually taller than he was.

It was the greyhound build.

“And who's that?” Arthur asked sharply, flinging his arms wide. “You act like that and yet you know who I am,” he half-raged, half-wondered.

“Yes,” Merlin acknowledged. “The son of a brilliant actress who's sold himself to Blockbusterland.”

“Don't,” Arthur threatened. Things might have got physical and to hell with the consequences when a head peeked out of the lacquered door leading into the audition room. The owner of said head, a brunette woman, said, “Oh it's you, Mr Pendragon. Mr Emrys. We've been waiting for you both to be here, so we could proceed with the read-through.”

And then it dawned on Arthur. “You're reading for Daniel?” This was a disaster. Worse than the Titanic, worse than the Wall Street Black Friday. True, emotions were acted out on screen, but he doubted he could make anyone believe he was in love with this irritating git. There was no way they'd get comfortable enough to pull off the romantic scenes, let alone the read-through. He couldn't stand this Emrys fellow and no amount of acting could cover that.

Merlin Emrys meanwhile had blanched. He tottered as he turned and asked, sounding very much like an eight year old for the record, “I'm reading for the lead role?”

Oh god, the idiot didn't even know what he was here for. Better and better. Arthur would never land this one. Never. And here he'd thought this could be a new beginning, elevating him above the usual acting drudgery that characterised his working year.

He groaned out loud and pushed Merlin into the room the casting directors where occupying.

“Keep you hands off me, you prat,” Merlin hissed as they stumbled into the room, parading before the director himself.

Arthur tried to console himself.

 

****

His two candidates for the lead roles were pushing and shoving at each other, having actually stumbled into the audition back-room, glaring sideways and generally behaving like two school kids who were about to have a fight of epic proportions. The only factor restraining them from actually coming to blows seemed to be their professionalism.

“Oh my God,” Nimueh said. “I don't think we'll be able to do anything with those two. They seem to dislike each other intensely.”

Freya, Nimueh's assistant, agreed, “I think Mr Pendragon snorted when Mr Emrys introduced himself.”

Drake felt himself growing angry. He'd had such hopes for these two squabbling young men. They would match visually. Pendragon was the famous name they'd been virtually ordered to cast; Emrys had that 'Je ne se quoi' that made the viewer participate in his imaginary trials. But if they rubbed each other the wrong way, it wouldn't work.

Drake was done for, his dreams dying a fiery death.

“All right,” Drake said, exasperated, while both Emrys and Pendragon were looking for their marks. “Mr Pendragon, you're reading for Thomas Sutton, but you knew that. Mr Emrys.” Drake let a huge smile wash upon his features. “You're going to read for Daniel. I want to see you try one of the initial scenes featuring them together.”

At this point Freya walked over to both actors and handed them the script scenes Drake wanted them to act out. “The one where they meet during an outing by the lake and Sutton recognises he's driven towards Daniel.” Drake was very proud of that scene; besides it could be played in so many different ways; a fresh spin could be put on the whole narrative depending on how it was interpreted by the actors. Drake looked forward to seeing that. He wanted to see how they'd work around his own words. “Naturally you can have a few moments to prepare yourselves,” he added imperiously to make the two behave.

Silence followed. Pendragon and Emrys, digital camera trained on them, read the script, exchanged a few meagre words, with a view to get into the mood, or perhaps co-ordinate their efforts (Nimueh sighing in the background), then got up and walked up to their marks. Emrys loosened his shoulders; Pendragon cleared his throat.

They began.

And morphed in two different beings.

_“Why are you here?” Thomas asked, angry, annoyed. “Why would you be here?” he asked again. He stepped closer to Daniel and Daniel neither backed nor flinched. He looked into the other man's eyes instead, daring him._

_“We know some of the same people.” It was said nonchalantly, but the way Daniel held himself advertised a different set of feelings. He was high-strung, almost trembling in place but not quite. His eyes were overly wide. He was both defiant and looked as though he wanted none of this exchange at the same time. Wanted to seek safety in normalcy by way of briefly looking over his shoulder._

_“You could have said no.”_

_“What?” Daniel asked, “To avoid you? Why should I?”_

_“Because it's not...” Thomas swallowed, lost the controlled tone and manners that were the signs of his upbringing. Even the way he pronounced words changed as he tried again. “Because it's not what is supposed to happen.” He grabbed a hold of Daniel's upper arm, clutching tight. Daniel gave a moue of pain and sought to fight him off. “Why are you parading before me like this? Why?" Thomas roared, face twisting in agony, hurt written all over him. He was almost doubling over, shoulders curving as if under the weight of some great burden._

_Then his actions turned gentle; the anger was swept away. There was an ironic twist to his voice, a twitch of his lips as if to direct sarcasm at himself. “What are you doing to me? What?” The voice was so different from the one he'd used before, so broken and small, so tender, that you would doubt this was the same man that had opened the conversation by verbally attacking Daniel. “Stop doing this to me.”_

_Daniel's defiance was soon gone; he leant into the other man, dipping his head. “I'm not doing anything.”_

_“But you're there all the time.”_

_A spark of irony inflected Daniel's voice, “Hardly. An outing to the lake is not 'always' and last time I saw you was when--”_

_Daniel was interrupted._

Drake was on it. Ad-libbing. He found the idea interesting.

_“In my mind, all the time.”_

_They both breathed, Thomas bowed his head too, so he was nose to nose with the man in front of him, his breathing harsh and painful, his eyes watery and lost, a step away from breaking down. He bent his head as if seeking the other's lips and Daniel opened his mouth into a pant. Thomas shed a single tear but looked relieved._

Freya clapped; Nimueh shot him a tell-tale look. Emrys and Pendragon sprang apart, once again eye-balling each other.

Drake was moved, moved. He'd never envisaged Thomas as so fragile and ready to break, or Daniel as so challenging, but he liked what Emrys and Pendragon brought to the table.

“They're sizzling,” Nimueh told him in a whisper.

Freya concurred, “The audience will have to buy cartloads of tissues.”

Drake shot up from his desk shouting, “That's it. You're it. You work. Best screen couple I ever auditioned.”

“Us?” Emrys questioned, darting disbelieving glances at Pendragon, who quirked an eyebrow and asked, “Are we sure?”

“I presume you want the job?” Drake asked. It wasn't as if he'd let go of them. He'd bribe them even, if that was what it took.

“Yes,” they said in a chorus. At least there was something they agreed upon.

“Perfect,” Drake exclaimed, congratulating himself on his find. “You make a perfect whole. You'll give Bertolucci's Romeo and Juliet a run for their money.”

Emrys gave a tight little laugh and for once Pendragon 's corresponding chuckle chimed with his.

“Draw up the contracts,” Drake shouted, elated. He looked forward to begin shooting.

 

****

The first week of shooting was pretty simple for Merlin even though it proceeded rather slowly.

The lighting crew had barely finished unloading their equipment; wardrobe had had their paws on him for a couple of days to get his measurements and get him to try on different ensemble solutions that would enhance his character's personality, progress and eventual struggle, and Mr. Drake, though sitting by the camera from morning till dusk, would talk to him about his vision and his expectations. The burden seemed to be great, but the idea of the challenge excited Merlin. Thus, overall, the first week went by fairly quietly whereas he wouldn't have thought so if he'd had to imagine how shooting a big budget film would be like. The near future looked bright, too.

They wouldn't set off to reach the chosen location in the Czech Republic till the next month, so Merlin just had to learn the script-supervisor's re-writes, go to the studio, and shoot three scenes that didn't need any further work from the screenplay's point of view.

The shooting of the first one of these scenes was a great experience as he played opposite the young boy who had the role of his brother in the film. The young actor's real name was Mordred, an eccentric name if there was one but normal considering that the boy's parents were in the biz, too. Despite his age, Mordred was a thorough professional and had brought out things in himself he hadn't suspected he had in his arsenal till they came tumbling out of him. The boy was a little strange as far as boys went in the sense that he was very mature for his age and capable of out acting many of his older colleagues. He brought a depth to his words and delivery that many an adult would never be able to enact.

Maybe, for this reason, Mordred was an unusually silent child. He played little; studied diligently with his tutors, but mostly he mutely observed the world around him as if he was recording the goings on, storing any precious bit of knowledge.

Okay, the silence maybe had spooked Merlin a little, but when Mr. Drake had shown him the dailies he'd been overjoyed to find that he'd actually learnt something from the kid.

“That's...”

“Moving, isn't it?” Drake said. “Brotherly love is but one of the aspects of love I want the audience to taste and you and young Mordred nailed it.”

During that week he also met most of the cast but some members that would have small cameos and would therefore appear at a later stage. Among his new acquaintances was Elena Prince, who had the role of Daniel's childhood friend, who loved him unrequited. He got along with her rather brilliantly. Like him, she was a bit of a catastrophe when she was being herself, but she could play any role creditably and could do her horse-riding stunts on her own, having been a former dressage champion.

So his week thus far had been very pleasant.

The hard part came on the Friday morning. His wake up call was at seven AM. Today they were shooting on location, at a little restored pub in Hampshire which still looked as it had in 1938. The interior was going to be studio-reproduced to save money, but the all outside takes were to be shot in Headley.

The scene he was going to have to play had seemed pretty easy to get right on the page. He was just meant to pedal up to the pub's door, a dolly tracking his movements, sport Arthur once there, lift his beret in salute, and look hurt when Arthur's character, Thomas, refused to acknowledge him in public.

As Drake set the shot and talked to his assistant, Merlin walked up to Arthur, thinking he'd better break the ice since he'd have to work with him for months. He'd already been given his prop bike, which was actually a real 1938 Elswick Hopper Gents Bicycle, so he'd had to steer it along and rest his hand on the handlebar to keep it from falling. He propped it up against his hip because the thing was a real memorabilia and he didn't want to damage it and addressed Arthur Pendragon, who was standing idly by, waiting for Mr Drake to say they were ready to shoot.

“So, nervous?” he asked, since he was and figured any actor with such a big production on his shoulders would feel the strain too.

Pendragon arched an eyebrow in the way of Bond film villains and said acerbically, “I don't get nervous.”

“I thought this is supposed to be big and you'd feel the pressure.”

Arthur tensed, locking his jaw. He uncoiled long enough to say a few scathing words, “Only a green ham like you would feel nervous.”

That was low. However Merlin tried not to take it personally. He already disliked the twat, but he had to work with him. “Is this because I said your acting was wooden at audition?”

“No.” Arthur turned around to face Merlin. His voice was eerily pleasant when he said, “On that occasion you had the good grace to tell me I chose the same roles over and over again. The wooden thing is new.”

Oh, bollocks. He'd just gone and made it irretrievably worse. “I…”

Before he could explain and say he hadn't meant it to come across like that, and this time he really hadn't, Drake shouted, “All set?”

The lighting director had evidently finished his checks and had given his okay.

The assistant director signalled to Merlin to move back to his assigned position up the road, so that he could pedal downhill and stop at the pub as the scene required. Merlin did this under the eyes of the curious Headley populace, some of whose members were standing behind the lines the crew had established.

He'd never had a problem performing in front of other people; he'd stood on a stage, so the curious glances of the bystanders didn't faze him. More so since they weren't here for him. Most of them had no idea of who he was since he'd never starred in a feature film. These people, mostly a group of starry eyed girls and their mums, were here for film star Arthur Pendragon. They'd ogled him enough and screamed his name on occasion. Which had served to make that abundantly clear.

Arthur Pendragon, though, was currently alternately glaring at Merlin and looking at him as if he was the filth under his shoe. Arthur scowled so much at him that Merlin's first take consisted of driving his bike into a hedge, the second saw him falling from it, thus bruising his knuckles, and during the third one he swayed and landed in a heap at Arthur's feet. Arthur looked down at him and drawled, “I thought even six year olds could ride a bike.”

Merlin succeeded on the tenth take, feeling terrible because time was money and the assistant director had taken to scowling at him harder than Arthur had. He even wondered if he could get the sack because of what had happened. It was true he'd already shot a few scenes, but his absence wouldn't sabotage the production. At most they'd have wasted a few days of shooting and they'd be running a little behind schedule. Replacing him would be so very easy and he'd just grown rather attached to the role, had his own take on it.

This was why he returned glumly to the hotel where he met Elena Prince. She intercepted him before he could steal into the lift and said, “You look sad; your girlfriend dump you?”

Merlin gave a small laugh. “No, it's more like I bollocksed everything up today and all I had to do was ride up to a door. I'm not even sure what kind of performance I gave, I was so focused on the pedalling.”

“I can't ride a bike,” Elena shared in the tone of someone who was revealing a huge secret.

“But you're a horsewoman!”

“Entirely unrelated,” she replied. “I'd probably die if I did.”

Merlin's lips twitched. “You're fun.”

“I hope so,” Elena told him. “Look, tonight most of the cast and crew are heading to a restaurant, it's Indian by the way, to celebrate the first week of shooting. Why don't you tag along?”

“I didn't know about that,” he said, feeling a little left out.

“That's because you're Drake's wunderkind and some people are just jealous.” She hinted at Arthur by imitating his sceptical eyebrow raise.

“I don't know,” Merlin said. “He already hates me; I don't like spending time with him. But I'd rather not make him loathe me entirely or we'll never be able to play lovers, ever. And we sort of have to.”

“Just pant your way through it,” Elena said, making Merlin blush. “That's what I did with my last boyfriend anyway.” She winked. “So, you coming?”

“Yeah,” Merlin answered.

The dinner was an unmitigated disaster. The food was excellent and Merlin showed his appreciation of it. Elena sat next to him, chatted to him and at times hooked her arm around his when she wasn't spilling wine all over him, or tilting glasses so they overflowed. But that, he found, was just a little hindrance to good-humour, even if his trousers were done for, Chardonnay not being easily washed away.

The real problem was Arthur Pendragon, the new bane of Merlin's existence. He'd appeared with a beautiful girl in tow called Sophia and had spent a good portion of the evening addressing her and her only. She was clearly either a girlfriend or a wannabe. This would have made Merlin happy if it had helped Arthur focus on diverting her rather than taunting Merlin. However, that unfortunate line about wooden acting and their less than stellar first meeting had made Merlin an enemy, according to Arthur. So the man constantly threw jibes at him, one more cutting than the next.

“Do you think they'll use CGI to do something about those ears?” he'd asked of the make-up artist, a short woman called Grunhilda. She hadn't answered so as not to make enemies in return. When Merlin was biting on his portion of Naan bread, Arthur launched into an account of the day's shooting. “He drove into a hedge. And then fell on his arse. I thought Drake would have an aneurysm.”

Some laughed. Some found the bitter mocking awkward and tried to get Arthur to talk about something that wasn't Merlin.

Gaius, the second unit director, clearly didn't approve of Arthur's behaviour. Arthur was seemingly trying to undermine Merlin's position as a cast member by getting the crew to laugh at him. In an attempt to make his co-workers see that Merlin had a decent CV, Gaius asked Merlin to tell them all something about his theatrical stint.

Merlin had a suspicion he shouldn't give Arthur any fodder but he found he couldn't stay silent when Gaius had shown only his genuine interest and good intentions. So he began by recounting the beginnings of his acting career when he heard Arthur say to Sophia, but loud enough for everybody to hear, “I wonder if he's slept his way into his theatre roles as I think he's done for this one. Drake raves about him. After all he's got to play that part.”

Merlin got up, threw his napkin down and before exiting the restaurant said, “I could wonder the same thing about you, golden boy. After all, you're playing that role, too.”

Arthur went red, either out of anger or his current state of inebriation. “It won't be a pleasure,” he said stiffly.

“The same goes for me,” Merlin shot back and walked away before he could murder his co-star. The last thing he heard before he was on the street was Gaius' saying, “Arthur you went too far. You ought to apologise.”

Merlin didn't dawdle on to hear what that tosser of a Pendragon had to say. He just walked back to his hotel, thinking that walking would dispel his rage. Trudging on along the rural village streets helped a little, reminding him as they did of his Ealdor home town. By the time he'd made it back to his hotel room, he was calmer, though not so happy about the whole Arthur being his colleague situation. He knew of only one other infallible method to calm down: calling Gwen, which he did, even if it was past eleven.

“Hello,” he said into the receiver, laying himself down on his comfy but impersonal hotel bed.

“Merlin,” Gwen squealed, not having heard from him for more than four days. They were used to living under the same roof and the separation felt strange. “So tell me,” she continued. “How's the golden life of a film star and how sexy is Arthur Pendragon?”

Merlin groaned. Not Arthur again. He knew he was one of Gwen's favourite celebs, but this was adding insult to injury. He heard some tinny noises as if she was shuffling things about on her end. “Is he really that hot or is it only photshop?”

“Gwen,” he said in a long-suffering tone. “He's a twat. A humongous one who hates me. He picks on anything I do and then he maligns me in front of cast and crew. I really, really don't know what to do to work with him and keep sane.” He exhaled, trying to think Zen thoughts. “For the record, it's not photo-shop, though, of course, he doesn't look as glossy in real life.”

“Is he really that bad?” Gwen asked.

“I'm afraid so,” Merlin answered, crossing his feet at the ankles, reaching for the remote, and turning the TV on mute. “Didn't mean to burst your bubble.”

“Well, if that's so,” she said in a sad voice, as if he'd really torn down a myth, “you mustn't let him faze you. This is your big break.”

“I know.”

“So focus on what you do best.”

“I'll try,” he said, rubbing at his belly under his shirt, which had come loose during his Headley perambulation.

“Merlin,” she said. “You're the best, really. Just hold on and everything will fall into place.”

“Yes, mum.”

“Idiot.”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

And on that sappy note they wished each other good night. Nevertheless Merlin was still agitated and antsy; the evening having left a big blot on his good mood.

Instead of watching the all news channel and let himself be depressed by it, as he should have reasonably done with shooting to be gone through in the morning, he picked up his key card and left for the hotel bar. Given that the hotel was the only such establishment in or around the village, it wasn't the trendiest or most furnished bar that Merlin had ever seen. But the barman smiled in a friendly way at him and Merlin perched on the nearest stool, eyeing the row of bottles on the shelf in front of him. Maybe he could face the idea of having to shoot intimate scenes with the idiot much better if he drowned himself in the right quantity of alcohol.

His first stage play? He'd been shitfaced, stage fright and nerves having led him to too many pints. Maybe it was time to attempt that again, even though he knew he was a lightweight of the first order.

The bartender, frizzled grey hair and patient smile painted on his lips, was waiting for him to make a choice. Merlin would have decided, if Arthur Pendragon, his present nemesis, hadn't stepped into the hotel's foyer, seen him at the bar and walked over.

Merlin could only brace himself and order, “A Mind Eraser, please.”

“Was I so bad that you would need that?” Arthur Pendragon startled him by saying. He was standing a pace or two behind Merlin and Merlin had to swivel on his perch to face him. His jaw might have spasmed, but he managed a pretty flat and non-insulting, “Thoughts of you were far from my mind, I assure you.”

Arthur didn't directly reply to that. He took the stool next to Merlin and told the bartender to, “Put that,” he gesticulated at the coffee and vodka-based concoction, “on my room.”

Merlin wanted to turn around and tell the bartender not to listen to bloody Mr Pendragon, but didn't want to make a scene, so he settled for a grunt.

“I ought to apologise,” Arthur broke the ice. He held himself stiffly; as though the admission was a sacrifice on his part. “The wine tonight didn't help.”

“It wasn't the wine and you know it,” Merlin pointed out.

Arthur shrugged subtly. “Gaius reprimanded me enough, thank you. He remarked on how unprofessional I was and...” He grew lost in thought. “I can't bear that.”

The bartender pushed Merlin's drink towards him and smiled, before retreating, as if to say he wouldn't be eavesdropping.

“I'm sorry. I know that being that imperfect bothers you,” Merlin answered, “but your apologies have nothing to do with me.”

Arthur groaned and passed a hand through his no longer stylishly tousled hair. “Look, do you want to bury the hatchet or not?”

“You're not really repentant though,” Merlin said, downing his drink.

Arthur grinned. “Watch it,” he warned. “Maybe not, but you began it.”

“No,” Merlin rectified. “You began it by ordering me about as if I were your servant.”

“I thought you were Drake's PA or something!"

“You didn't even ask, 'hey, do you work here?'” Merlin said, lifting a finger to ask for another one of those fantastic drinks. “No, you just assumed I was there to serve you.”

Arthur raised both eyebrows. “Comes with the job.”

“No, it doesn't,” Merlin shook his head, saluting the bartender as his saviour when another Eraser was placed right before his nose.

“Go easy on those.”

“What do you care?”

Arthur's voice turned serious. “Look, in three days we have a pretty intimate scene,” he said in an expository way, as if Merlin didn't know or was too sloshed to remember his schedule.

“I know that,” Merlin muttered under his breath, and gulped down Eraser number two.

“I usually discuss expectations and comfort zones with my colleagues,” Arthur said seriously.

“We're blocking it with Drake,” Merlin said, not wanting to broach the topic. “It's not as if it isn't all scripted.”

Arthur asked for a glass of beer and turned to Merlin once again. “Naturally, but how real do you want to make it?”

“You're going to be all over me anyway,” Merlin observed. “Little we can fake about the... positioning.” The bartender dropped the glass he would have filled with beer. It crashed noisily. He scooped the fragments up and threw them into the rubbish bin as nonchalantly as any man could have after having shown what he was listening to.

Arthur guffawed. “Yeah, but the kissing. I usually do stage, but I have an inkling Drake wants Passion with a capital P.”

“If Drake says to go for real, we go for real, if not...”

“Hey,” Arthur put his palms up in a defensive way. “Not looking forward to kissing you.”

“Thank God,” Merlin said, though not spitefully. The bartender stopped polishing the counter.

“I don't even like you.”

“Me neither.”

“But let's be professional.”

“I've always been but you were the one who was...” Merlin stopped, heaved himself to his feet or he was sure he'd sleep there and said, “Okay, olive branch.” He fished a few bank notes out of his pocket. “It'll look good,” he promised and paid for his second drink. He retreated to his room, feeling Arthur's eyes on him all the way to the lifts.

 

****

 

Drake didn't like leaving the set and the actors to meet with his producer in London, but he feared he had to show solid evidence of what they had so far and nothing would be better than for him to turn up in person instead of being subjected to an impromptu on set inspection by Mr Taliesin himself. This was the reason that led him to hire a car and driver that would take him up to London.

He and his assistant director, Philip Myror, had armed themselves with the dailies, had chosen the best scenes to show, and were now sitting in the ante-chamber to Mr Taliesin's office.

“I'm sure he'll like your directing choices.”

“Let us hope so, the destiny of this production rests on our casting choices and Mr Taliesin's approval.”

The usual secretary from before ushered them inside after a twenty minute wait. Myror rose from his seat, laptop under his arm and Drake followed him, preparing speeches to defend both his artistic and casting choices. The latter concerned him more, frankly speaking.

While Mr Pendragon might be considered a wise choice to settle upon, the same could not be said of Merlin Emrys, who, to date, only vaunted four theatrical productions, none of them with a big company, a few TV commercials, one of which was somewhat embarrassing, and a tiny TV role in an ITV cop drama. He'd played the under-age offender, quite brilliantly too, but he'd been on air for no longer than six minutes.

This time Taliesin rose to greet them, smiling contentedly. He shook Drake and Myror's hands and led them personally to the little sofa in the corner of his office. He sat opposite them on a leather armchair and crossed his leg, placing both hands on top of his knee. This introduction was certainly more friendly than their last pre-production meeting. This change had to mean that Drake had done something well.

“Anything you would wish to drink?”

“No, thank you,” Myror said, setting up his laptop on the coffee table.

Drake said, “No, perhaps another time.”

“I hear you've hired Arthur Pendragon,” Taliesin said. “That's exactly the kind of actor I would have wished to see perform in one of our productions. I've looked into box-office results and can predict that if we keep to par with his previous participations, we should gross around £24 million.”

“That's brilliant,” Myror said, smiling. Thank God he at least could be diplomatic. Drake himself had two moods. Excited about a project or furious about it.

“I'm a little more concerned over your other lead,” Taliesin began. “An interesting boy, but young and inexperienced.”

“We agreed I could choose the best performer for this role,” Drake answered. “You should have seen the audition; they slotted together like two halves of a whole. I'll have no-one but young Emrys to play Daniel.”

“What Mr. Drake means to say,” Myror added more smoothly, “is that we think the chemistry between the leads and the impressive, evocative moments they can enact will compel the audiences to watch.” So saying he turned his laptop and showed Taliesin the dailies, choosing the Thomas and Daniel pub meeting scene, Merlin and Mordred's brotherly moment as well as some of Arthur's scenes.

Taliesin brightened. “They're both young and appealing in different ways,” he reflected.

“And eminently marketable,” Myror said.

Taliesin cleared his throat. “Yes, I can see that. I can see the potential, but if Emrys makes mistakes I want his lines cut.”

“That would destroy the romance!” Drake boomed.

Myror objected more gently, “We're basing this film on the war-heroes romance angle. And Daniel is,” he looked at Drake for permission to speak further, “the mirror and exact opposite of Thomas. Cutting his scenes and lines would also disastrously undercut the film's themes. But I feel that Mr. Drake and Ms. Lake typecast both Arthur and Merlin so they could play to their strengths, not being entirely dissimilar to their characters.”

Drake was simply grateful for the fact that Myror, who could be a bit of a gambler and could play people when he wanted, had accompanied him today to alleviate his own quick temper.

“Very well, then,” Taliesin said, casting a glance at his watch. “I can only wish you good luck for now, though I wish to be informed at all stages.”

The meeting had gone better than planned, Drake concluded, once he was out of Taliesin's elegant office. Better than planned.

 

****

The set was a perfect reproduction of a 1940s hotel bedroom down to the frankly disgusting beige and pink floral wallpaper that reminded Arthur of his grandfather's living room at the old place and the chintz grandma sheets that covered the bed. Every prop was a perfect imitation of the furnishing styles current during World War Two, including the simple headboard, the curved cabinet wooden radio with its round knobs and lozenge push buttons, and the art Deco cupboard. The window had been made to look open, but it gave onto a studio corridor instead of onto a blitzed London view. The curtains looked domestic. Fans would later be set in motion to make it look like they were fluttering in the breeze.

When Arthur walked in there, wearing only a bathrobe and a strategically placed peach-coloured cock-sock, he felt like he'd really stepped back in time, if not for the singular attire.

“Looks fantastic, doesn't it?” one of the cameramen asked him, picking up on his sense of wonder and ignoring his impending nudity. The crew had been reduced to thirteen people today, the barest minimum to allow for the technicalities of shooting without embarrassing the actors, who'd have to parade around almost naked, but from some providential Lycra-like fabric, all day long.

“Set designers can be really brilliant,” Arthur said honestly.

This was when Merlin, dressed in a robe that was twin to Arthur's, and Drake waltzed in. They were discussing the emotional value of the scene, Drake saying emphatically, “It must look very carnal, very passionate, very desperate, but underlying it all there must be this sense of a great, defying-the-circumstances love.”

Arthur snorted to himself. It wasn't that he disapproved of the script. It was a good one. But he could see that Drake favoured Merlin by looking at how he took pains to get his point across to him, how he coached his young star through it. And Merlin drank it all in, eager and serious all at once, just grinning when the director explained to him how he wanted the orgasm moment to look. That mischievous, impish, slightly lewd smile that crossed Merlin's face took Arthur more than a little by surprise. Up until that moment Arthur had seen Merlin as... a little bit of a nuisance actually.

He'd seen him as that boy who had little experience and who managed to be gauche enough to fall from a bike – repeatedly – during one fairly simple scene. An annoying egalitarian who thought he had the same weight to pull as an actor of Arthur's standing when he had a far more meagre curriculum to back up his claims to equality. Arthur certainly hadn't associated the man with the concept of sex, though, given the man's age – he was a twenty-something after all – the idea shouldn't have been so outlandish.

Arthur groaned while Drake gesticulated grandly to Merlin. He supposed he should have felt left out but he consoled himself by thinking that perhaps Drake believed he was qualified enough to broach the scene with little directing.

Too soon though Drake released Merlin and pointed him towards the bed. They'd blocked this on paper before, choreographer and director both present, and they knew what to do, where to be in relation to the cameras. Drake wanted the cameras rolling on the first take too, even if it was merely experimental and they'd probably can the results. He said they could get lucky and witness a natural, not too heavily choreographed scene that could charm the audience.

It was time to get naked – well almost. As Arthur made to undo the belt around his waist, Drake walked up to him and told him, “I want you to not over-think it,” he instructed.

“I can do that,” Arthur said, not shedding his robe yet.

“I want you to think big, destined love you should fight but can't,” Drake said, warming to his subject. “I want you to act blinding desire balanced by honest, real feelings. You're doing this because you can't stop, because you want to touch him, have him, but you don't want to hurt him. I want you to shed Thomas' usual reserve and give us something full of sensuality.”

“Not gritty though.”

“No,” Drake agreed. “This is their romantic night together before the catastrophe hits. So there needs to be some gentleness to it.” This said, Drake slapped him on the back once and moved out of what would be the shot to check the monitor.

An assistant, a girl in a pony tail and Nike trainers, came to help him out of the robe. He shed it, trying to think, “I'm a professional. I'm not at all fazed by the fact that twenty people or so can have a nice look at my bum. Anyway the nation's going to see it, too.”

Merlin, the bastard, was lucky; in a way Arthur would be covering most of his strategic bits with his own body.

A propos bodies, Arthur caught a view of Merlin's because, like Arthur had before him, Merlin was disposing of his bathrobe. As scrawny as he appeared clothed, Merlin didn't look half bad undressed. Arthur could see everything of him, follow the lines of his form, his thin arms, his wide shoulders, his not really muscled chest, and could let his eyes trail down to his belly and groin area. The cock sock they'd given him left little to the imagination and served only to save decency or the crew members from getting a real full monty. Arthur could well imagine how Merlin'd look without it except for maybe a few details. He was fairly proportioned and decently endowed, though not hung in the porn film sense. What he saw was appreciable. Longs legs finished the whole picture off. Not bad indeed.

Their gazes met. Merlin didn't blush. Half the set, which was closed today, could take stock of him if they so pleased and it wasn't as if what was being filmed today would stay between these three and a half, mostly cardboard, walls. But he did look down, patting the sheets as he plonked down on the bed. Soon he had an assistant artfully draping the sheets around him, so that his legs would be uncovered like his torso.

It was Arthur's turn to climb in after him. Over him. Now Arthur was a trained actor, and this should be easy for him. In a way it was, if he thought of this as just another aspect of his satisfying job. But a grain of embarrassment would always be there, to be covered by a respectable patina of professionalism. This time something was unsettling him though and putting a lid on it wasn't simple.

He placed himself between the cradle of Merlin's splayed legs, propping himself up on his arms, chest to chest, his cock brushing against Merlin's bare thigh. “Good morning,” Merlin said, seeing as they hadn't exchanged a word today. He was biting on his lip as if he was finding the whole thing ludicrous. Arthur guessed it was absurd enough. “Hello,” he answered. As if on cue, the set dresser walked up to the bed and arranged the sheets around them so they'd cover Arthur's legs but not his arse, and so that Merlin's left leg would be bared up to his hip.

The make-up artist joined them to do a touch-up on Arthur's make up, ordering him not to sweat too much. “Easy that,” he said. In response, she sprayed him with rosewater and glycerine to make him look sweat-drenched. Apparently carefully applied substances were okay, but God forbid he ruin his make up by way of genuinely perspiring.

His arms felt stiff already but the camera would soon be rolling and he didn't want to lie on a Merlin shaped pillow.

“This is weird,” Merlin whispered to him. “In a grand total of four plays I've only had to stage kiss once. This... this is like being seventeen all over again.”

Arthur laughed. “Weird, yeah.”

“Feeling a last second panic attack and want a body double?”

“Nah,” Arthur answered cockily, though he didn't know where that was coming from. “I'll wow them all.” He paused to look at Merlin, who was still grinning up at him. “It's not us. It's them,” he lectured, meaning the characters. “We're just looking in on what they're doing, lending a...”

Merlin laughed, his breath tickling Arthur's neck. “I studied drama too, you know, oh prince of the silver screen.”

The boom operator positioned himself. He said something funny to the set decorator, who was eating a sandwich.

“So you read that article...”

“I do laundry... Need reading material.”

And then Drake called, “Silence on set!”

Which meant they were about to shoot the scene.

“Okay?” Arthur murmured, all the animosity he'd experienced towards Merlin fleeing out the window.

Merlin nodded, looked up at the ceiling and nodded again.

“And action!”

_Thomas thrust into Daniel, who ran his hands down his back, nails digging into skin as he scraped his way down his spine. Thomas leant down to kiss him then, opening his mouth, and panting wetly into it. His hips shot forward out of rhythm, while Daniel draped his leg over the back of Thomas'. He threw his head back, and Thomas kissed at the hollow of his throat, up his neck, to cover his mouth again. One hefty thrust, an intimate rocking motion, and Daniel's hand shot towards the headboard in a white knuckled grip._

_Thomas levered himself up a little looking at Daniel, love and sorrow and pain on his face. He intercepted Daniel's hand, intertwined their fingers and kissed him once more, lingeringly, passionately. Their breathing peaked, their pants filled the silence, till Daniel's face contorted in orgasm, mouth hanging open, neck muscles spasming, legs closing tight around Thomas' waist._

“And cut!” Drake shouted.

Arthur let himself fall over Merlin, arms on fire with the strain of balancing on them for long minutes on end.

“Guys this looks good,” Drake said. “You do have great chemistry. But... that kiss wasn't as heart-breaking as it could have been. Remember the final shot for this is a close up on your hands, but the kiss is what is going to make people think Thomas and Daniel love each other.”

Merlin pushed Arthur's head to the side and asked, “So what should we do?”

“A little bit more entangled, if you please,” Drake said. “Less lip moosh and, while it's entirely up to you, more of some Top-Gun-like tongue action.”

Merlin eyed Arthur. Arthur picked himself up and nodded to him.

“Okay,” they both said.

To Merlin he said in a whisper, “Are you really comfortable with that?”

“It's fake all the same,” Merlin answered. “It's okay. You're Thomas.” He smiled.

“And Action.”

This time they shifted down a little, and Arthur began those hip thrusts meant to imitate penetration, Merlin running his hands down his spine more proprietarily than he'd dared before. His fingers lingered on his tail-bone and Arthur felt really hot about the neck when a couple of Merlin's fingers actually strayed to his buttocks. He let his hips work and lowered himself. This time instead of pressing his half-open mouth against Merlin's and going for a bit of slack-jawed panting and lip collision, he didn't close in on him; didn't fit their lips together. Instead he slipped his tongue inside Merlin's mouth and brushed the tip against his, retreated and delved back again, letting their tongues tangle in the space between their mouths.

His stomach muscles went taut for real when he bore down and Merlin arched into him. His cock brushed against Merlin's, and as a consequence of their close proximity, he started hardening without wanting to.

According to the blocking choreography, Merlin should have lifted his leg then and wrapped it higher up around him; instead he paused for a heartbeat, having felt Arthur's stiffness. To cover it, he arched into Arthur and threw his head back as per the script, but that was the final straw. Involuntarily Merlin had given him friction and now Arthur's heart was beating fast and he was as hard as he was going to get.

This was a disaster. He was sure that people knew even though there was no space between his and Merlin's body that could have allowed them to see. He gritted his teeth and finished his scene, kissing the space between Merlin's clavicles, up his throat, and closing in on his mouth, this time allowing himself only a stage kiss. They did the hand thing, to allow for the camera zoom. And then Merlin did his orgasm impersonation.

“And cut!” Drake yelled.

Arthur crumpled on Merlin, unable to get up without displaying his state of arousal. He didn't want everybody to know.

Mortified he murmured an “I'm sorry,” into Merlin's neck. There was no way Merlin didn't know he was really close to coming, and while a physical reaction could be overlooked considering the staged circumstances, it said a lot both about his sexuality and professionalism. Besides, Merlin had stayed appropriately calm throughout.

“Shh,” Merlin whispered back, sounding complicit. “It's okay. It's okay. Just don't move and let it die down. Oh and think of... ladybirds or Snoopy or your childhood baby-sitter, unless that's a kinky turn-on or something. I won't tell. It's okay. I don't mind.”

“I'm still sorry,” Arthur said, shifting a little because he felt too close, and Merlin was still very much wrapped around him, naked and bony and warm. “So sorry.”

“No biggie, Arthur.”

“Umph.” He looked down the bed and at the floor.

“That's what I want,” Drake called out from his director chair. “But you fell out of frame at 0.45 secs.”

Arthur groaned.

They spent five hours, not counting loo runs and lunch breaks, to get the scene done. Arthur was able to control himself during each take, but just by dint of thinking of the most unsexy things on the planet. Which in turn made some of the takes look stiff, so they had to re-do them. A little tired, Merlin said, “Hey, I'm all a tingle too,” and blushed. “Just go for it or we'll never be done.”

Arthur took Merlin's advice and applied it to the last take of the day. He went to town, not really thinking about much beside the movements he had to get right, letting himself feel everything and be transported. Once again control over his body slipped away from him, but he let go, reining himself in just that little bit necessary in order not to really come for the cameras.

When it was over, Drake had shot to his feet and was shouting they had, “Gold, there. Gold. The pure rawness of it!”

It was a wrap for the day, which allowed Arthur to rush back home and avoid Merlin before he got too confused. It was normal that he should have experienced what he had, when you were mimicking that kind of perfect intimacy. It was Thomas that was mad about Daniel, he reminded himself when he decided to let out his frustrations in the shower. He and Merlin could barely stand each other.

Scalding water running down his back, his hand stole between his legs. It was Thomas.

 

****

 

The following month of shooting went far better than the first week had. At least Merlin had a truce going on with Arthur Pendragon. If Merlin reflected about that, he'd have to find it very strange that they'd ratify their strange peace treaty in the way they had, with them naked on a bed, a roomful of people hovering around.

Well, and then there was Arthur's boner 'accident', but Merlin had written that off as fortuitous stimulation.

Merlin had been concentrating on the acting, on being Daniel, far too much to let control of his body go. He'd been so deep into the role that he'd noticed a few seconds too late. And when he'd felt it, he'd been a little flustered, too. He'd put the reaction down to spending five hours on a bed with someone while mimicking explicit sex acts.

However that was, if a modicum of embarrassment had made Arthur a little easier to work with, then Merlin was happy about it. Arthur had actually taken to exchanging polite greetings with him, had stopped ridiculing him in front of others except for those rare occasions when the situation seemed to make it natural (and Merlin took those as a joke), and he'd stopped excluding Merlin from the cast and crew's nights out.

There were a couple of such occasions in that month alone and Merlin had been invited to be present on both, always by some person other than Arthur, but he hadn't been wilfully ignored as he had on Indian Night. Arthur even asked him the occasional question or two during one of those bashes and was well-mannered.

So sometimes Merlin let his temper get the better of him, as when he and Arthur had first met, but generally he didn't approve of all-out wars with his co-workers; as a consequence, he tried to be nicer than he'd been without deferring to the 'star' as others did.

He'd be polite; he'd even smile, but he wouldn't treat Arthur as if he were a special extra-terrestrial being. He refused. Arthur was famous, but he'd also been favoured by the name he bore, so Merlin could see no reason to give him preferential treatment.

They weren't friends by any means; there was little he really knew about Arthur Pendragon the person, but the cold war was over. Their truce reflected on the quality of their acting as well. When they needed a scene charged with tension, of any kind, they practically acted out their former real animosity; when they were called upon to enact the sweeter moments their characters shared, they found they were able to do so because they were no longer bristling at each others' words.

Acting alongside Arthur had always been easier than getting along with him actually.

They'd always managed to connect when being Thomas and Daniel. Now it was even better than that. They could predict where the other would go; they could take the other's cues and improvise. They could disappear into their roles and the other would follow. In short they'd developed something harmonic. They'd become a well-oiled machine, to the point that being Daniel had become easier and easier for Merlin, more so now that he had this safety-net, knowing that he could push the envelope and dare a little and that Arthur would try and support him along the way.

They didn't even have to discuss their characters much anymore, aside from questions like how dramatic did they want to make it, how desperate should they be, should they make this about them being really happy right now, etc.

Neither of them was a method actor, so all the tension, desperation, happiness and love were left behind when they went back home, but they were a little closer than before.

And then there was the move to Prague, which would have to pass for 1940s France. The choice of location had been dictated by budget reasons since their stay in and around Prague would be cheaper than if they'd tackled moving the crew over to France.

Merlin had been both hesitant and scared about that. He'd never been so far from home before for such a long stretch of time. He knew he'd miss having Gwen to talk to. He'd also miss the ability to see a friendly face once his working day was over. Yet he was growing even more passionate about the Daniel role than he'd ever been. There was no question of his being on cloud nine.

The first days in Prague were fun. Thankfully people addressed him in English and he only had a problem on his first free day when he had to ask for directions, since despite being armed with a map and dictionary, he still couldn't pronounce place names, so he had to ask for directions to places such as the 'Big square with the nice clock'.

He and Elena, who were not recognisable as famous actors, wandered around the city, snapping pictures of almost everything they came across, from the castle and Charles Bridge down to a creepy hooded statue that Merlin said reminded him of the grim reaper.

“It's a character from Mozart's Don Giovanni, stupid,” Elena said, tugging him forward.

“I still think it looks very scary.”

Elena snapped another picture. “Pity Arthur can't be here with us,” she said. “He'd probably like the creepy statue.”

“It's not that he can't; it's that he won't.”

Elena hummed a little. “You wouldn't like walking around with bodyguards all the time either, Merlin. He'd be besieged by fans. There would be little sightseeing left for him to do if the paparazzi got wind of his presence here.”

“The press know he's in Prague,” Merlin countered. “It's not like it's a secret. I hear Drake's released at least five interviews already. And I know for a fact that Arthur finds the time to go clubbing.”

Elena took a photo of him. “Now you sound a little jealous.”

Merlin spluttered. “Jealous, me?” He put his travel guide back in his rucksack. “No, thank you. But can you really, honestly say you like the way the prat acts?”

Elena stumbled and Merlin sprang forward to catch her. “Thanks.” Then resuming their former topic of discussion, she said, “No, I can't say that I like it when he goes all cocky, but I would have said you'd see it differently.”

“And why would that be?” Merlin asked.

“You're so steamy together. They let me watch the dailies.” She grinned, while trying, almost unsuccessfully, to secure the strap of her bag.

“It's called acting.”

“Yes, but it's so realistic. You could be like Taylor and Burton,” she joked. He knew she wasn't serious, wasn't implying anything. It was just her goofy brand of humour, so he played along.

“Yes... the quarrelling is spot on.”

“Come on,” she said, dragging him into a side street she seemed to find interesting, “You almost never quarrel anymore.”

“No,” Merlin agreed, looking at his shoe. “We've managed to become civil. That is, I've always been....”

She pulled an angry school-teacher face at him.

“Okay, we've come to an agreement.”

Merlin would have expanded on it, explained that he and Arthur had applied diplomacy to their interactions, when he was appalled to hear Elena say, “Merlin, I think I must have lost my mobile.”

 

****

It was pretty late at night when he made it back to the hotel. He and Elena had spent hours at the local police station to report the loss of her phone. By the time they were done, all restaurants were closed and they were hungry, tired, and their feet were screaming blue murder. As soon as they were back, Helena dove into the hotel's sauna which was open twenty-four/seven to relax. Merlin was left to slog his way back to the lifts where he met a returning Arthur.

“Living the wild life, Merlin?” Arthur said on seeing him. He pressed the call button and a green light flashed.

“Ah, ah,” Merlin said. “I spent the evening at the police station.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You do look bedraggled. What happened? Did they mistake you for a junkie?”

The lifts doors opened and they boarded. “No,” Merlin answered, not understanding why he was even bothering to explain the surreal turn of events. Especially not when Arthur was doing little to be nice: junkie. He didn't look like one. He'd never even smoked. The bastard. He should step onto his foot, accidentally on purpose. No, better not. The hatchet had to be buried. “I was with Elena.”

He pushed the button corresponding to the sixth floor; Arthur stepped closer to him and pressed another one. The lift started going up and Arthur leant nonchalantly against one of the mirrored walls.

“You spend a lot of time with her,” Arthur remarked, looking at his nails.

“She lost her mobile,” Merlin said. He would have added details but the lift stalled. It lurched, swayed from side to side and came to a stand-still, an ominous metallic sound warning them as to something being very wrong.

Merlin started getting alarmed because a sound like that wasn't good news, but Arthur was the one whose eyes had gone wide and who had started visibly sweating.

Evidently unsettled, Arthur bounced forward, pushing buttons randomly, then the alarm switch.

Merlin wished he wouldn't.

“We're trapped,” Merlin wailed. And the problem wasn't so much the lift that was stuck, although that made him nervous in an anaccountable way. (And he wasn't even claustrophobic, but the idea of being confined was very unpleasant.) The problem was that he was trapped in a stuck lift with Arthur, who looked very angry indeed. A small place to be shared with an angry, possibly irrational Arthur.

Joy.

“Oh, that particular had escaped me, Merlin.” Arthur tried the lift's phone. “Yes, Arthur Pendragon,” he barked into it. “My colleague and I are trapped.”

There was a minute of silence. “What do you mean we'll have to wait?”

Merlin grew more apprehensive.

Arthur was shouting, “What do you mean there's a black-out?” Arthur paused; the vein in his neck was ticking visibly. “No, I know what a black-out is, thank you. I mean this is a luxury hotel. Don't you have generators?”

“Arthur,” Merlin tried to appease him. Arthur wasn't listening to him. He had his index finger pressed against his ear, while he held the emergency phone's headset up against the other. “Why doesn't this rank as an emergency? Between floors? Oh, that's just hilarious.”

Hearing that, Merlin slid down the wall and settled in for a long wait.

Arthur slammed down the receiver, letting out a furious growl. “Incompetent cretins,” he shouted. Then he looked up, pulled a thoughtful face as if he were considering a plan of some kind and jumped like a crazed moron. He managed to leap high enough to grab one of the transversal poles that ran across the metal lift ceiling. He was now hanging by it. He pushed at a latch next to his hand and tried to force it open.

“What the hell are you doing?” Merlin shouted, standing up.

“Trying to crawl out,” Arthur huffed as he tinkered with the latch.

Merlin passed a hand through his hair. “Arthur, that's bound to be screwed shut. Besides, this is not an action film and you're not James Bond.”

“I have stunt training,” Arthur strained to say while he fiddled and pushed. “Get your arms around my waist and help me. I can't hold on forever.”

Merlin dithered, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, doing nothing at all to help.

“Oh, come on, Merlin. It's not as if I haven't had your paws all over me.”

So provoked, Merlin let out a noise of complaint, and wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist to keep him up. “Arthur, stop this. Even if you get out you might get crushed,” Merlin said, picturing just such a scenario. “Or the lift might drop. Believe me, it's better if we wait.”

Arthur did something with his hands that caused him to grunt. “Just because I'm an actor, it doesn't mean I'm useless.”

“No one said that,” Merlin said in the tone he would have used if he were speaking to a child. But Arthur was being stubborn and was hurting himself in the process. So Merlin played a different card. “I can't hold you anymore. Please?”

After a few more moments of obstinate cursing, Arthur hopped down.

“Thank you,” Merlin said, and resumed his place on the floor.

They spent the next twenty minutes in almost complete silence but for Merlin's smacking his lips and Arthur cussing to himself. Then Arthur broke the silence. “So where do you come from?”

“Uh? Merlin asked.

“You heard me. Where do you come from?”

“What is this?” Merlin asked, leaning his head against the wall. “An interview?”

“You might as well start training,” Arthur said a little cynically, coming to sit next to Merlin, even though the floor was not pristine and his trousers were designer. “They'll ask you everything. They'll want to know every little detail.” There was an authentic bitterness to Arthur's voice and at that moment, Merlin felt sorry for him even though that morning he hadn't had a grain of sympathy for his harassed film star plight.

“That is if I become famous, which I don't think I will,” Merlin said.

Arthur chuckled, running his hand down the length of his thigh to smooth out the creases on his trousers. “You will,” he said. “Believe me. I've got eyes to see and you're talented. Acting opposite you is... good.”

Merlin felt the heat rise to his cheeks.

“So why did you become an actor?" Arthur asked.

“I'll tell you only if you tell me why you did.”

“Because I wanted to become rich and famous,” Arthur said dismissively. Merlin didn't believe him. He knew for a fact (if magazines were to be believed) that Ygraine du Bois had been a star of the first calibre and had been rich enough to support twenty families before she died in that car accident that caused the premature birth of her son. If Arthur had wanted to, he didn't have to work at all, or he could have chosen to stay behind the scenes in the film industry, like his father.

Even though Merlin suspected Arthur of omitting things, he answered. He wanted to. “I was shy. I hated doing anything in public. I've always been a little...”

“Uncoordinated, goofy, gauche?” Arthur said for him.

“A little bit,” Merlin said without heat. Maybe he wasn't taking Arthur's teasing to heart because his tone wasn't hurtful. “Anyway like all kids of about twelve I was enrolled in the school play. And I begged out and I begged out. But my teachers said, 'No, you'll have to do it. It'll be good for the development of your social skills', and you know teachers.”

“Actually, not really. I mostly had private tutors though I went back to school to attend fifth form.”

Merlin gaped a little but the idea of Arthur having skipped normal school matched with his idea of the Pendragons' lavish lifestyle.

“The rest of the story, Merlin,” Arthur said, chiding him. “You can't let your audience wait. You'd be a horrible script-writer.”

Merlin laughed merrily. “Oh, no, no,” he mumbled. “It's boring.”

“I'm asking,” Arthur said, nudging his foot with his. “Come on, let's make things even. You must know everything there is to know about me.”

“Okay,” Merlin said, turning his head to smile at Arthur. He kept looking at him as he explained, “I was petrified. So my mum suggested the local acting school. So that I could be given some lessons before the school play.” Merlin could remember it as if it were yesterday. His first day at that school. It wasn't a very serious or renowned institution. They'd had salsa classes thrown in with acting classes and diction ones. For his first lesson he'd been taught how to breathe, while he'd thought, I might know how to do that already, thanks. But then he'd gone again, because his mum had insisted, though Will had poked fun at him. “I started liking it when they gave me my first scrap of script. I played a wizard. I had so much fun.”

“And then you amazed everyone at the school play,” Arthur said, drawing one of the possible conclusions.

Merlin shook his head, nudging Arthur's foot back while not taking his eyes off him. Arthur's face had grown... nicer. Perpetual supercilious frown gone, he looked both younger and friendlier. Merlin liked Arthur Pendragon like this. Much better than the prattish side of him he'd been exposed to in the beginning. “No,” Merlin said, amused. “That would have happened in a film. The real star was this girl who could act, sing and tap-dance. Me... I just took more of those acting classes.”

“They worked,” Arthur said, perhaps wanting to praise him. Who knew.

Merlin gave something back. “When I said that I didn't like the films you were in...” Merlin began.

Arthur grunted, jaw stiffening. “We've already established that you think I'm a shite actor, thank you, Merlin.”

“Not true,” Merlin said, this time looking at the doors because holding Arthur's gaze wasn't as easy as when he was in character. There was some kind of honest hurt there. “Your first film? That one was amazing. Brilliant. Exceptional. I liked you in that one. I thought... I dragged my best mate from school, Will, to see it. It was fab. Will complained it was an artsy fartsy kind of film; swore to having slept through it. Truth is he had tears in his eyes and I was shocked at how good you'd been and while so young.”

Arthur reddened and unbuttoned his shirt a little. “And then my second role disappointed you.”

“Not as such,” Merlin said.

“Merlin, you've always been quite honest,” Arthur said.

Merlin started playing with the sleeve of his jumper, pulling at a thread. “You can say I was brutal.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur admitted, “so you can tell me the truth. How did you find my second film?”

That film had been terrible. “Okay, I thought it was horrible.”

“That's my Merlin,” Arthur said.

Merlin felt as if he had to swallow and had no idea why the urge was there. If anything his throat was parched and he wanted a drink, having no excess saliva to dispose of. He couldn't have gone all flustered because of a possessive now, could he? “How long do you think we're going to stay here?” he said, trying to change the subject. He was sure he hadn't been subtle about it, but he was tired and his nerves were a little frayed. This Arthur being nice thing was coming out of left field.

“There was a black-out.”

“I overhead that.”

“So you can draw your own conclusions, Merlin.”

Merlin let out a breath. “We're spending the night here, aren't we?”

Arthur said, “And why do you think I blew a gasket when I was told?”

“To pull the film star routine?” Merlin smiled. “You can't be a proper star if you don't throw a tantrum now and then.”

“If I was throwing a tantrum,” Arthur said, elbowing him, “it was because I don't fancy sleeping here.”

Sleep. Merlin longed for a bed. He'd walked miles today, following Elena everywhere. He'd collected a stash of photos too but now he wanted nothing more than to bury his nose in a soft pillow, especially if he considered that his alarm was set for six thirty tomorrow. He let out a groan, uncensored and visceral, “God, I need to sleep.”

“Go on,” Arthur said, “you can sleep. I'll wake you when they rescue us.”

“How?” Merlin asked, scanning the cramped space.

Arthur pulled him closer, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck as if he were a mewling kitten. “You can rest against me.”

“My,” Merlin quipped, “Arthur Pendragon is being kind. I'll have to inform the papers.”

“I'm famous for my graciousness.”

Merlin snorted against his shoulder. But he couldn't keep it up and found he'd closed his eyes without meaning to. Soon he was asleep.

 

****

The lights had been carefully arranged, long leads running from the hidden generators to power them. The extras, all attired in 1940s costumes, were in place, the cameras were set, and sound had just been deemed to be fully functional by the sound supervisor. This, in turn, meant that Drake was ready to film one of the turning points of the film, the good-bye scene.

A fake train carriage dominated the set, Arthur Pendragon hanging around close to it. The make-up artist assistant was finishing applying some brand of cosmetic to Pendragon's nose and forehead while the prop manager was handing him a fedora the actor, bless him, put on with relish. He appeared to like it.

Now that Pendragon was ready, they would start filming.

Drake clapped his hands; everybody who didn't belong scampered off frame. “Action!”

_Thomas was ready to board the train that would take him away, possibly lead him to his death. He held a soft leather case in his hand, important documents inside it, the destiny of a country hanging in the balance. The wind was high; he'd turned up his collar in an effort to keep warm. The soft scarf that was wrapped around his neck served the same purpose._

_He stopped short, not quite able to mount the step and board the train. An instinct making him do so, he turned, putting his foot back on the platform. His fingers closed around the metal rail meant to help the passengers up._

_He scanned the crowd, seeing women in their bedraggled overcoats and knitted scarves. He watched them mouth their good-byes to their uniformed husbands, lovers, brothers. He watched them give them tokens destined to be treasured on a distant battlefield, mementoes of home and a hope that wouldn't be crushed by this ruthless war._

_The children, both boys in their knee-length trousers and girls in their scruffy dresses, moved him more. They were clasping their mothers' hands, while seeking out their fathers' eyes for a last parting glance._

_A blond woman, whose extravagantly coiffed hair stood out, was waving her handkerchief at a man leaning out of one of the filthy carriage windows._

_A hawker was advertising his wares, though his voice sounded spiritless more than inviting._

_Thomas' attention hadn't been grabbed by either individual._

_His eyes widened when he saw Daniel, thinner and more gaunt than he'd been before, run up to the platform, dashing past officers, women and children, jumping over forgotten suitcases and navigating around all the other obstacles on his way._

_The train whistled, reminding him he had to go, that this was a good-bye and who knew if they'd see each other again on this earth._

_Not wanting to leave, he stiffened. He looked over his shoulder at the train, knowing it would steam off quite soon. But he couldn't yet. He had to wait. Had to have this._

_And then Daniel was facing him and Thomas could do nothing more than study him. Blood was rushing to his ears and all the outside noises were washed out, as though he'd turned deaf._

_They didn't speak. There was nothing they could say that wasn't too painful or too trite. Daniel had tears in his eyes. He looked lost and sad, but also a little bit sharp as he always had, able as he was to find that grain of humour in a dark, dark world._

_Thomas breathed in and out, chest expanding. His fingers tightened on the handle of his briefcase. He inched forward but aborted the motion before it really was. He opened his mouth to speak, but again no words would come._

_Putting down his leather case, he breathed out, needing to brace himself, and grabbed the other man by the neck, crushing their mouths together. His hands were cupping Daniel's cheeks, his thumbs following the lines of his cheekbones._

_Thomas' tongue parted Daniel's lips and he started crying at the idea of being able to feel this for the last time._

_He sucked on Daniel's kiss-ravaged upper lip softly, his tongue slipping inside to caress, letting passion have the upper hand while a groan escaped him. He flushed with desire._

_Daniel hugged him tight, wrapping a hand around his waist as though he wouldn't let go, even though they both knew he would._

_Thomas dipped him, fingers wandering, tapping the side of Daniel's face as he had that time by the lake when they had been a little bit more innocent._

_Thomas kissed Daniel passionately, lewdly, this hurting in so many different ways, both because it was so good and so painful to let go. He gulped in air, feeling he needed air to reason, think, live, and yet he continued bestowing small kisses on Daniel's mouth. He caressed the back of his neck, breathed him in, touched his lips to his forehead, brushing back an unruly strand of hair._

_And drew back when the train whistled one last time, reminding him of those terrible noises that had rent the stillness of the night ever since the war had broken out._

_Only then did he step onto the train, standing by door, looking at Daniel alone among the thinning crowd. This had been their good-bye and there was no place left for more, but he felt sapped of his strength so he leant his forehead against the dirty window._

“Aaaannd cut,” Drake cried, rubbing his hands together, satisfied. “Arthur, Merlin, that was positively bloody fantastic.”

Arthur jumped down from the prop 'train' while Emrys turned to focus on him.

“I told you that by making the kiss more realistic we would gain in authenticity, feel the characters' sorrow and passion and be reminded of their steamy nights together, their agony at parting.”

Pendragon emitted an embarrassed cough.

Drake couldn't see why; as a director he'd been the one who'd explicitly asked for passionate, realistic kisses and this one had fit the bill.

Emrys rubbed at his neck, messing up his make-up. Drake didn't mind. This take was the good one. And to say it was their first today. Fired up, Drake said, “We no longer live under the ban of the Hayes Code; kisses have to be realistic to look good on camera!”

“If you say so,” Arthur Pendragon said.

Emrys flushed.

Actors. Drake didn't understand them half the time. “The producers will be delighted,” he explained, trying to make them see what he was seeing, that this was even better than he'd thought. That the emotional value of the enacted scenes surpassed the quality of the written word. “A bitter-sweet war epic is what the Academy favours nowadays. We're getting an Oscar, boys!”

He could really see himself holding up the little golden bastard quite proudly.

 

****

The preponderant noise that could be heard was the busy, mechanical sweep of the cameras as the crew prepared to film. Drake was sitting in the background, dwarfed by a set of three monitors he was checking simultaneously while quietly briefing a subsection of the crew as to what he wanted, discussing technicalities such as the number of frames and angles required to achieve the wished for end result.

Myror handed the DP the shot list.

The lighting set-up had been arranged; the set had been prepped to perfection.

Arthur wasn't shooting today, so his presence here wasn't required. He could have slept it off or gone for a swim at the hotel. Morgana had scheduled an interview with a magazine for the early afternoon but till then he was at loose ends. Yet he'd found a print-up of the call sheet under his door and knew that Merlin and Elena had a scene together this morning.

Arthur also knew what it entailed. Since they had been shooting out of sequence, this scene would be edited to slot into the film's first twenty minutes.

Daniel and Elena's Kay were supposed to be out for a picnic, the background for the shot the lovely countryside around Prague, passed off as England's verdant hills.

The deep friendship between the two characters was meant to take a brief turn towards sexual experimentation as Kay, who loved Daniel and always thought they would be together when they grew up, leant over a bunch of cucumber sandwiches and kissed the boy of her dreams. The scene revolved around Kay's insecurities and Daniel's young-man doubts concerning his sexuality, his last ditch attempt to fit in a still strongly patriarchal society about to be buffeted away by a world war.

Arthur thought this would be worth watching, so he'd asked a lift of the craft manager, whom he'd befriended over the last few days, and had turned up to see the filming even if he wasn't in any scene.

Drake mostly ignored him, having other things to do. The crew stared a little, not knowing what to make of him today. He acted as though they didn't exist as he was wont to do when he felt a little out of sorts.

Elena looked fetching in her 40s garb and hair-do. She was wearing a pink blouse, a back-button-closure plaited skirt, and a butterfly pin. All in all, she looked very sweet, her hair shining brightly in the sun and eyes twinkling in merriment. Merlin had silly velvet trousers and a chequered shirt on, open at the neck. It made him appear vulnerable and young. An effect that wardrobe had certainly been aiming for.

At the moment Elena and Merlin had their heads bent over the script and were running lines. Soon, though, they stopped. She lifted her head and said something Arthur couldn't hear. But he did hear Merlin's answering peal of laughter.

She thwacked him upside his head with the rolled-up script and this had Merlin shouting, “I'm wounded! I'm dying. Watch me die!” Then he rolled over their picnic blanket and faked a gruesome stage death complete with rattles, groans and a few theatrical contortions. Elena was crying for laughing so hard, slapping Merlin's chest and shrieking, “Stop now or I'll never pull myself together for the dramatic scene. I'm the jilted love interest.”

“But Daniel loves you too,” Merlin told her, still lying down, head cradled in his arms, looking up at the sky. “He's just a gay boy.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the exchange between Elena and Merlin. He folded his arms over his chest, fingers tapping his arm, and watched them instead of walking over to them as he'd intended.

“Either she's a flirt or he's a flirt,” Cedric, one of the grip guys, commented. Arthur simply grunted, feeling sure the man wanted to gossip. He hated the mere idea of it, having been the victim of baseless tattle once too often. Cedric, however, rattled on, “That's what happens every time they have a scene together. He says something; she simpers. He giggles...” he trailed off suggestively. He made sure that the closest dolly track had been properly installed. Satisfied he said, “If you want my opinion...”

Arthur cut him off before he could regale him with it. “No, thank you.”

Cedric squinted at him, pocketing a spanner. “Just making conversation, mate,” he said.

“That's fine,” Arthur said in a tone that clearly implied it wasn't. However he was saved by Drake's call for silence and the subsequent one for action.

_Kay had prepared the cucumber sandwiches just the way Daniel liked them, with way too much butter and the crusts cut off. She handed one to him, and he accepted the offer with a boyish smile._

_“Thank you,” he said, “but do you mind if I save this for later? I'm not hungry.”_

_“You should eat,” she said, touching the hand he had laid upon the chequered plaid they were sprawling on._

_He smiled again. “Glad I'm forgiven,” he said._

_“You know I only want you to be happy.”_

_He gave a deep-throated sigh. “I know.”_

_She ran her finger up to his knuckles; Daniel dipped his head to watch. His fingers twitched._

_“Kay,” he said._

_“No,” she replied. “No.”_

_“I don't..”_

_“Ben and Sarah Sutton are getting married. Will you come?”_

_He tensed. “The Suttons?” he asked._

_She scooted closer. “People in the village say it's a match of convenience, but I know for a fact she loves him.”_

_“It's perfect then,” he said in a frail voice. “They can have the best of both worlds.”_

_“You can have it too,” she told him._

_He nodded. “I know. It should be...”_

_“It's easy.” She leaned over and pushed her lips against his repeatedly in a pattern of small butterfly kisses, waiting for him to react. After a while he did, letting her probe his mouth. She slid her hands to his shoulders while he raised a hand to her face and caressed the side of it ever so gently, as if she were breakable and he was lost. The tips of her fingers grazed his neck where his shirt was unbuttoned. He intercepted them._

_Daniel drew back and said, “This is not...”_

_She pressed a last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Don't you?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Then, why?”_

_He buried his head in her neck and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't know.”_

_She carded her fingers through his hair and said, “It's alright. It's alright.”_

_He couldn't see her, but she was crying._

“And it's a cut,” Drake announced loudly. “And it's a good one.”

Merlin and Elena smiled at each other mischieviously though her eyes were still wet. Arthur chose to go and join them. He sauntered over to them and squatted down so he was at eye-level with them. Merlin looked surprised to see him, Elena, who was dabbing her tears away, not so much.

“Hello, Arthur,” she said. “I should ask you what brings you here, but I won't.” Her eyes lit up with mischief. Merlin looked from one to the other, nonplussed.

Arthur answered nonchalantly, “Room-service was slack; there was nothing on the cable-channels and I took a detour.”

 

“Oh,” Merlin said. “Well then, liked the scene?”

“Fishing, Merlin?”

Merlin gave a sharp laugh.

Elena bit on the cucumber sandwich she'd been given for the scene; it was a real one, to ensure it would look authentic on screen. “Can you actually eat props?” Merlin asked, looking like a mix of a street urchin and a choir boy.

“No, you can't,” Arthur deadpanned.

“Yes, you can,” Elena said, inelegantly chewing with her mouth open. “There are more where this came from.” She munched on. And to say she was an actress and that most actresses were finicky about their dietary habits.

“This reminds me,” Arthur said, voice conveying a certain blasé attitude. “I was supposed to dine at Meltdown tonight with this journalist from the French Vogue.”

“Trendy,” Elena said.

“Ah, ah,” Arthur said. “But she asked for a rain check.”

“I bet,” said Elena, both eyebrows meeting her hairline.

“But the table's reserved and everything and I actually fancy eating there. Chef's famous.”

Merlin's brow furrowed. “So go,” he said, not seeing where Arthur's problem was.

“Want to come?” Arthur asked him.

Merlin's stupefied expression was a little priceless, Arthur reckoned.

“Er, okay?”

Elena raised her greasy hand like a child who wanted to be noticed by her teacher. “Can I tag along?”

Arthur scratched the side of his forehead. “Didn't you have to do the thing with the thing?”

Elena's eyes grew round as saucers. “Sure, the thing. Yeah, the thing with the thing.”

Curious, Merlin asked, “What thing?”

Elena swallowed too quickly and almost choked on her cucumber sandwich. Both Arthur and Merlin vigorously slapped her back, hoping they wouldn't have to perform a Heimlich on her.

Spying a disengaged PA, Merlin jogged up to her to ask for some water for Elena.

“Thank my acting abilities, Pendragon,” Elena hissed. “The thing with the thing!” she mocked.

Getting back on his feet, Arthur said, “I don't know what you're talking about.” His voice had been devoid of any inclination that could have tipped her off as to his degree of sincerity. He slipped his hands into his pockets and made to leave the set. Merlin was returning to his and Elena's 'picnic' spot, bearing a glass of water. Crossing paths with him, Arthur shouted, “The hotel lobby tonight, 8.30.”

Smiling to himself he trotted away, hailing a driver who'd take him back to the hotel.

 

****

 

Merlin knew he should have dressed to the nines if he meant to dine in a place like the one Arthur had got booked. But he was tired and had been working all day. This was not to say he was complaining about his schedule, though of course he was looking forward to Sunday as some golden Eldorado. But adding the night out on top of that would surely contribute to make him look like a zombie by midnight. He might have refused Arthur's invitation but strangely enough he found he wanted to dine out with him, have a bit of fun and find out if Arthur could stay as nice as he'd shown himself to be since the lift incident.

Not that they'd discussed it much, beyond Merlin apologising for waking up plastered to Arthur's side. And having drooled on his jacket. But then again Arthur hadn't said he was angry or anything at all really.

Huffing, he looked at his reflection in the mirror and pronounced himself satisfied. His jeans were fine, his button-up was brand new, bought as it was with his fee money, and his hair for once looked as if it had met a barber's comb. Which it had. For the shooting. Well, it was a 40s haircut, so he'd had to make it look more modern via some strategic messing. But better than usual in most respects. Better than that time he'd had to shave all his head to play a killer. His ears had stood painfully out for months.

Brushing imaginary lint of his shirt was the last thing he did before leaving his room. He was being the soul of punctuality too, considering he'd been shipped back to the hotel only forty minutes before.

In the lobby he found Arthur – who was glamorously dressed – and his two bodyguards arguing.

The very tall man Merlin had come to recognise as Leon was saying, “Arthur, we're paid to protect you.”

“How many times do I have to repeat that I'm giving you the evening off?” Arthur said, gesticulating wildly. If he'd been acting Merlin would have suggested that less was more.

“Arthur,” the other bodyguard, Owain, said, “You need to understand that we'll never find a job if some mad person decides they love you so much they want to kill you. Remember Lennon?”

Arthur humphed.

Leon said, “Besides think about the paps. What if one gets too close?”

Arthur sounded very vexed when he said, “Driver's gonna drive up to the restaurant's back entrance. We're going to dine in the private parlour. To be picked up at the back again. I don't see how I could be spotted like that.”

Leon threw his hands up in the air. They were big hands, looked as though they could snap any man's neck in two easily. “Arthur, you're the one who hates the lot.”

“Paranoid,” Owain supplied.

“We...”

“Enough!” said Arthur and then he spotted Merlin. He adjusted his tie and smiled broadly. Perhaps exaggerating a little. Clear cover-up sign, Merlin thought, as he walked up to him.

“What are we getting worked up about?” he asked.

“I'm giving these gentlemen the evening off,” Arthur said, putting a hand on Merlin's shoulder and guiding him towards the revolving doors. “Now if they could just get the hint.”

Merlin smiled good-naturedly. “It's okay,” he said. “I'm looking after him.”

Owain scoffed; Leon, who was apparently better behaved, looked as though he was about to dispute Merlin's ability to protect anyone.

Then Arthur straightened, assumed an authoritarian tone of voice and said, “I pay you enough for you two to do as I say and not vice-versa. Do I have to look for new bodyguards?”

Owain and Leon shook their heads simultaneously. If they'd blocked that, they couldn't have managed a better example of perfect synchronisation.

“Good night,” Arthur yelled, pushing Merlin out of the hotel and into the idling car. He tapped on the window separating the driver's seat from the back one and said, “Drive on.”

Merlin suppressed a giggle.

Once on the road, Owain and Leon left behind, Arthur fell silent. Merlin found said the silence awkward and almost regretted having come. To break the ice, he asked, “Do the paparazzi really follow you around as if you were Paris Hilton?”

Arthur's lips twitched. “Not that much no,” he said. “I'm not as colourful and I never got arrested. They don't inspect my rubbish bins for clues as to my sex life either.”

Merlin coloured a little. He really couldn't see why. It wasn't as if he was a prude. God, his almost … everything would be displayed on a huge screen. And end up on DVD. So no.

He cleared his throat, while Arthur monologued on. “But they're around more than I like. Asking people questions. Shadowing me when I'm with someone.” Arthur flashed him a meaningful look, studying him as if he was expecting a reaction. Did he want Merlin to condemn all paparazzi and scandal mongers as the dregs of humanity? He didn't much feel like humouring Arthur. Paparazzi were hardly one of the ten plagues. Annoying: yes. Biblically evil: no.

Arthur continued, “Sophia, my ex. Remember her?”

Merlin could say that he did, so he made a noise to make that clear.

“She ditched me a year and a half ago,” Arthur said, not seeming overly pained. “Said there was this American entrepreneur who was and I quote,” and he really did, impersonating Sophia down to her sultry voice, “'He's as minted as you, Arthur, and there are no paps on the horizon when I'm with him.'”

“Sounds to me like she wasn't all that into you,” Merlin said before he'd realised exactly how that could be taken. “I'm sorry; I didn't mean to.”

But the car had stopped and the driver had opened the door for him. (And Merlin would never cease to find this strange.) Arthur had already got out of the car and when Merlin found the presence of mind to follow suit, he heard Arthur complain to the driver. He caught only the tail-end of the rant but it sounded like, “to do it. Next time pay attention.”

And then a very sophisticated restaurant hostess appeared, practically bursting at the seams, gushing, vomiting words a mile a minute. “Hello, I'm Lida!” she introduced herself.

She shook both their hands, perhaps taking longer to release Arthur's. Then in a bubbly tone, she said, “Mr Pendragon! It's such a delight to have an international star like you here! I've had the pleasure of watching every film of yours, in the original might I add.” She sighed loudly. “And I'm struck at how brilliant you were in all of them. Let me say that we are honoured to have you here. We are at your disposal.”

Merlin had to focus on not snorting.

Bypassing the restaurant section reserved for mere mortals, she led them inside a private romantic dining room designed to fit what Merlin might only call a fashionable, Zen-chic style.

The lights were subdued; there were candles almost everywhere and they bathed the hand-painted oriental designs on the walls in a warm, inviting light.

The space glowed and seemed intimate, though it certainly retained a smart, modern vibe.

In a corner stood an intriguing small door that opened onto a flight of stairs, which gave onto a bricked, vaulted wine cellar.

Merlin took this all in, feeling a little out of his natural element. He'd been in very nice, posh restaurants before, especially after a wrap-party, but none had been quite like this.

The hostess waited for them to be seated and then she handed them two leather bound volumes that looked more like ancient tomes than menus. “I'd like to add that we're here to cater to your every whim. You can order anything that strikes your fancy, Mr Pendragon, even if it's off the menu. Just say it and we'll procure it.” She waited for Arthur to say something in return. He murmured his 'thank yous' and 'delighted to be heres' and 'it won't be quite necessaries' and then she left, walking backwards so as not to take her eyes off Arthur till the last possible moment.

“Do people always act like that around you?” Merlin asked over his open menu. He was beginning to understand why Arthur was so spoilt.

“Yes,” Arthur answered. “That was even professional.”

Merlin sniggered. A waiter appeared to fill their glasses with water and then another one popped up to present the wine list and ask what they'd like to drink. Arthur ordered a bottle of fine Moravian wine, keeping it local, while Merlin asked for a plebeian beer. He'd even learnt the Czech word for it.

“So how was your day today?” Arthur asked, evidently giving small talk a try.

“More of what you saw.”

“You and Elena get along well.”

Merlin was still reading the menu, having finally decided to go for the spit roast suckling pig, so he answered absently, “She's a lot like me.”

“And that's good, isn't it?” Arthur asked. “When you can connect with someone like that.”

Merlin said, “Mmm,” when another waiter turned up and they both ordered their food, the man jotting down their choices efficiently.

“Cedric is spreading gossip on you two,” Arthur told him once the waiter had left to relay their order.

“Oh.” Cedric was weaselly enough to do that. It figured he would. Merlin was sure though that he could do nothing about that though.

Arthur rested back against his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. The man evidently hated gossip of all kinds.

“It's not that bad, really,” Merlin reassured him. “I mean I can't stand Cedric but I can't punch him on the nose because...”

They were served their food. Staring down at his plate, Merlin found that his piglet looked very appetising. The side dish of potatoes made him happy, too. Something classic. Solid fare.

Although he was barely sparing his own more elaborate dish a glance, Arthur smiled when he saw that Merlin was eager to plough in.

After having placed his napkin on his legs, Merlin did. He cut out a little piece, dipped it in the tomato based garnish sauce and brought it to his mouth. And, oh God, it was very hot and spicy. So hot and spicy he was probably turning green about the gills. His eyes were likely popping out, too. His mouth felt as if it was on fire. Spluttering horribly, he grabbed his water glass by the stem like a man barely out of a desert and drained it, tears in his eyes. “Argh.”

Arthur was holding his stomach, he was laughing so hard. When he stopped, he was flushed and his eyes were dancing. “Lord, we've done everything backwards,” he said, shaking his head.

Merlin was still trying to quench the inferno raging in his mouth and was therefore not quite able to make any sense of Arthur's mysterious words, when Arthur pushed his chair back, stood, cupped the back of his neck and placed a kiss on Merlin's mouth, just a press of lips, and then another, taking Merlin's upper lip between his and then letting go.

Merlin's heart thudded in his chest. It was all he could hear. Thud. Thud. Thud. He was also speechless. One more sonorous thud.

When it was over, he asked, “You did that because?” This wasn't computing. Not really. Merlin didn't know why his heart was beating double time now when he'd kissed this man the other morning and nothing had happened. Mostly nothing. Just a wee bit of embarrassment. He didn't know why Arthur would kiss him in the first place either. He wasn't that drunk. And he'd always said that he didn't like Merlin.

Arthur sat back down, rattled. He placed his elbow on the table, and ran a hand through his hair, a habitual gesture with him. “How can you not know?” he asked.

Merlin must have looked as though he had next to no idea as to what Arthur was going on about because Arthur finally explained. “When I kiss you...” He stopped to wet his lips then began again, “I've stopped doing it in character. When I kiss you, it's because I want to kiss you.”

“You like me? Merlin had to ask.

Arthur chuckled though he was probably about to clam up again. “What do you think?”

“I'm confused. You swore you didn't want to kiss me. As in ever. You were loud about it. You were very direct about it. No, let me stress how loud about it you were. It was more like when pigs fly, kind of...” Merlin shut his stupid mouth. “I like you, too. Now.” There, that was decidedly better.

Arthur was smiling guilelessly, in a way Merlin wasn't used to seeing all that often. “Can we do this in a more linear fashion?” Arthur asked. “You know, adopting a more normal progression.”

“You want to date me?” Merlin translated.

“You can say that.”

Merlin fixed his stare on his forgotten piglet, then looked up through his lashes.

“Don't flirt!” Arthur said, not angrily.

“Why?”

“It's working,” he admitted. And then, “God, you're gorgeous.”

Thrilled, Merlin said, “Yes, Arthur.” He'd thought he couldn't stand this man. It wasn't quite true. It was all wrong. He wanted him. He'd read it all backwards. “I want to do all that normal stuff.”

 

****

It wasn't as though they could go out together and see each other like the rest of the world did. They were working all day long anyway and, when they weren't, they were surrounded by seas of people. They didn't share all scenes for one. Sometimes they weren't even on the same set. Sometimes Merlin was too busy learning his lines for a take and Arthur was being interviewed in a TV studio.

So there certainly wasn't any ridiculous hand-holding, or cooing, or open flirting. Sometimes they even-play acted not liking each other, just for the kicks.

Merlin would storm in a huff, complaining about puffed-up egos – and sometimes Arthur thought he wasn't acting per se at venting his former grudges against Arthur – and Arthur would poke fun at Merlin's looks, earnestness, and general happy-clappy attitude in his drawled, old school voice.

“You're a pretentious arsehole!” Merlin'd say.

Not to be outdone, Arthur would retaliate, biting down a smile, crew shaking their heads at their antics. And then during a scene Merlin would slip him the tongue when he should have gone for stage. He did it for all the world to see.

And despite that nobody had caught a whiff of their as yet unconsummated affair. Okay, perhaps Ms Prince wouldn't be gobsmacked if she learnt the truth, but Arthur was positive the rest of the crew, down to Drake himself, didn't know.

Since they'd begun their acquaintance in a very forcedly touchy-feely way, they decided to go about the rest, this getting to know each-other thing, like sane people did. To be precise, they went about that even more slowly than normal people, though Arthur lived for those moments when he could wrap his arms around Merlin's waist and kiss his neck, even though it was Thomas bloody Sutton that was doing it.

In a way Arthur even resented his character. Which meant he was clearly out of his mind with desire because now he was being jealous of himself. Off his rocker, he was.

He and Merlin would see each other on their nights out, steal half-hours over their catered brunch. Merlin'd ask about Arthur's favourite colour, political stance, favourite actor, first kiss. Arthur would go for the kill and ask something far more personal. “What makes you scream in bed?” or “Favourite sexual position?”

At first he'd done it to see if Merlin would actually blush or react in any way. When he wasn't being himself, when he was playing someone else, he'd do anything however outrageous. As himself... Arthur was sure a little shyness was still there, that Merlin wasn't so different from the little twelve year old who'd been afraid to perform.

But Merlin answered him. “Being held down by someone else's body,” he'd say, eyes dilating. Or, “Being rocked into as someone spoons behind me. Entering someone ever so slowly so he can feel me and I can feel it till my heart's in my throat and I'm aching so.”

They were teasing each other. Arthur had gone hard in record time the day he heard the second answer. He'd been able to think of nothing but Merlin, Merlin, Merlin and how he'd felt beneath him when it was just a farce and how he'd feel around him, inside him, over him, if, when, it was for real.

He remembered tastes and textures that were stolen from a man who didn't exist, the wet drag of Merlin's tongue against his, the feel of his flesh as it brushed against his cock.

As Arthur had realised before, he was being driven insane. So one night after shooting, Arthur finally declared, “We're going out tonight. To Prague.”

“What, not scared of the big bad fans or the big bad reporters?”

“No, I want a night out in Prague.”

Under the cover of the night, they roamed the city at two AM like two madmen, bypassing frequented places, stealing into public gardens, going up to the castle, down to Mala Strana with its picturesque buildings and quaint side-streets, moon shining brightly over them.

In one of its deserted lanes, Arthur backed Merlin up against a wall and shoved his tongue inside his mouth, filthy, wet, lascivious.

Merlin moaned and thrust up against him, biting on his lip, drawing blood.

“I want to do this,” Arthur said. “God, I want to finger you open and crawl inside you while I lick into your mouth.”

Merlin lapped at his lips in answer. “Auditioning for a porno?”

“No, barmpot,” Arthur said, bunching Merlin's shirt up in his hands. “No, I just want you.” And how. His body was aching with it.

“Then let's do it.”

Arthur had the keys to a friend's flat in Prague; the friend was currently somewhere else touring Europe for a theatrical commitment.

It was but natural he should steer Merlin there, though they zigzagged a lot on their way, stopping to back into corners where they could kiss each other's mouths open, where they could push the other against any vertical surface available and touch.

They eventually made it to the flat, Merlin behind Arthur, kissing his neck and palming his groin as Arthur fumbled with the lock, fingers shaky, breath raspy.

Then miraculously the door opened despite Arthur's clumsy attempts.

One of them kicked it shut and this time Arthur was the one finding himself shoved against the wall, Merlin having latched onto his throat, fingers in his hair.

Arthur let him, tilting his head to the side so Merlin could run his mouth there, kiss and suck, while he unbuttoned Arthur's shirt.

The kiss on his pulse point had Arthur raving something incoherent. Merlin's lips were soft and when he rubbed them up and down his jaw, a thrill ran down Arthur's spine.

His shirt had come undone and Merlin pushed it down his arms while Arthur tried to push down the zip of Merlin's jeans.

There were too many arms in the equation however, and Merlin stepped back, making a show of doing it himself. Now his jeans were gaping open, showing the dark fabric of the man's boxers, and the reddened head of his cock peeking out.

Arthur grabbed Merlin by the wrist and pulled him close, tugging his shirt off his arms, and letting it pool at their feet. He'd seen him in the almost nude already, but this was different – his.

Merlin's torso was flushed and hot to the touch as if he had a fever.

Arthur coaxed him closer still and slipped his hand inside his underwear to poke at the tip of his cock.

Merlin's breath hitched, chest expanding, rosy flush rising to his neck.

Reassured this was what Merlin wanted, Arthur's fingers curled around him, moving up and down, slowly dragging it out, feeling him harden even more.

He fisted him, tugging slowly, sliding the foreskin back and forth, feeling him leak, watching him throw his head back in pleasure, tendons taut, for real this time, for him, not the cameras and not for the eyes of an audience wanting to be titillated.

Merlin's hips stuttered into meeting his hand, a half-primal jerk that had Arthur so hard for him it wasn't even funny.

“I want to lay you down and run my lips everywhere,” he said, walking Merlin backwards, pushing him on the bed and kneeling before him.

Merlin nodded, eyes at half mast. “Okay, want to feel your naked skin.”

To get to that Arthur removed his shoes and peeled the jeans and socks off Merlin.

He straightened for a moment to dispose of his shirt and then clambered on the bed over Merlin, so they were lying chest to chest. “Like this?” he asked, voice scraped raw.

“Yes,” Merlin said into his mouth.

Arthur looked at Merlin under him, light from the skylight above their heads making his body look so fey and desirable. Arthur bent his head to kiss the base of Merlin's throat, made an 'O' of his half-open mouth, put his lips to Merlin's Adam's apple and gently sucked.

Merlin started panting out loud, wet, uncontrolled, letting out devastated moans.

Arthur's blood rushed fast in his veins, so he speeded up the motion, slowed down again, nibbled, and slowed down some more.

Merlin shouted, tugging at his hair, saying, “God, please, please, please,” hips curving in an arc up against him. And then he gritted out, “Don't mark me. Cameras. You're marking me. Don't.” He let his legs fall open instead.

Arthur breathed out the most irreverent “Christ” of his life, moving off the bed to get at the condom and lube in his wallet.

Items found, he raced back to Merlin, kneeling next to him on the mattress. He slipped a hand between his legs and underneath him, fingering his hole, while the other was splayed on Merlin's bent knee.

He pushed his thumb against it, just a little and watched as Merlin brought his fist to his mouth to bite on it.

His eyes were glazed; pupils blown, he was staring up at the skylight. “Push inside,” he said, voice so, so different. Arthur did.

Merlin grunted.

Feeling he could hurt him, Arthur stopped.

“Like pleasure-pain,” Merlin said, too far gone and getting to Arthur, too.

Knowing he'd come if they continued like this, Arthur ripped the packet of lube open and spread the substance down his fingers up to the knuckles.

He started fingering Merlin open, touching him inside slowly, soft skin yielding to him. He thrust his fingers in, curving them to find the prostate and watched Merlin's scrunched up face.

Merlin was meanwhile forcing himself to be still, body quivering, but for his head, which was moving from side to side, giving up a litany of sounds that were nearly inhuman in their ferocity.

Then Arthur's fingers withdrew, stroking behind Merlin's balls as they retreated.

Heart in his throat, Arthur positioned himself behind Merlin, put on the condom he'd prepared, slicked himself up and told Merlin, “Roll on your side and bend your knee.”

Even with his cock arching up against his belly, Merlin could still go for humour when he wanted. “Enacting my fantasies?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't think you'd remember.”

“I do.” He slicked himself up, lay down on his side and started pushing slowly into Merlin, nudging past the first resistance.

Merlin drew in a breath and extended his arm up above his head.

Arthur's fingers sought his to clasp as he bottomed out. “This what you were talking about?” he breathed into Merlin's ear as he rocked forward.

A wheezed,“Yes.”

“Close your eyes,” Arthur said, kissing Merlin's neck and shoulders with his mouth open, hips working in and out in small increments, controlled movements, a feeling of fondness warm and larger than life washing over him.

Displaying his trust, Merlin did as he was bid.

Arthur moved gently, only his kisses were hungry and passionate. He'd managed to leave the raw hunger behind and what he now had was this, this thing that was making his chest burst, and his heart flip, and that reached down to his cock and belly and was spreading everywhere.

Close to climaxing, Merlin guided Arthur's hand to his cock and together they stroked while Arthur inched in and out of him, Merlin fluttering around him, till he was spilling all over his knuckles, body rising and mouth slack in a moue that looked like pain and Arthur knew was pleasure.

Watching that was what drew Arthur's orgasm out of him, a warm tidal wave that felt unspeakably good and equally overwhelming.

“Merlin,” he croaked, still inside him, though softening.

Merlin hummed. “Stay still. For a sec.”

“Okay.”

“Tomorrow's Sunday anyway.”

Arthur had to move, pull out. He rolled onto his back, groaned and pulled himself upright, stumbling into the bathroom to throw the condom away.

He came back with a towel he'd wet under the tap, saying, “Merlin?”

“Yeah?” Merlin mumbled sleepily.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Can we enact my fantasies tomorrow?”

Merlin lobbed a pillow at him.

Maybe not.

Merlin laughed into the other pillow. “Don't look like that. I was yanking your chain. It's a 'yes'.”

Arthur bounded over to the bed.

“Whose place is this again we're trashing?”

 

****

That morning Merlin woke to a kiss on his lips, to a tongue flicking in and out of his sleep-slack mouth. Tiny tremors of desire ran through him when he opened his eyes to daylight washing over him and Arthur, who was leaning over him, shit-eating grin on his lips, hair looking lighter and as if surrounded by an inconsequential halo.

“Good morning,” Arthur said, swooping down for another kiss.

Merlin returned it lazily, not properly awake yet. “Tell me it's Sunday.”

“It's Sunday,” Arthur said, giving his nose a peck and straddling him. “We can be decadent. We can stay all day in bed.”

Merlin smiled and put his hands on Arthur's hips. This was good in every sense. It filled him with anticipation and it was a bit like being held down, movements restricted by Arthur's weight on him.

“Let's be very decadent,” he said.

They did leave the bed for bathroom runs, a shower, and in order to raid the fridge, which was equipped with nothing but frozen food, the owner being away. Then they retreated back to the bed, and didn't have sex again, but they did touch, hands running everywhere, free to do so when there was no curious camera trained on them. Arthur Braille-read him, fingertips tracing every dip and angle of him.

“It tickles,” Merlin said, though he let him.

“You're angular,” Arthur said.

Merlin didn't take offence. Arthur was saying it as though it was a bit of a wonder that he'd be, but not as if he found him displeasing.

To provoke him a little, Merlin reached down between Arthur's legs to run the tip of his finger along his quiescent cock. It twitched and Arthur opened his mouth.

“You look so...” Arthur said, breathing a little bit faster, “innocent, but you're not, you...”

The Sunday was over too soon, as it was bound to be.

It was true that time seemed to fly faster when you were happy and Merlin had been. He didn't know what he was getting into, didn't stop to ask himself, but he'd never thought there was a different choice to make. This one had come quite easily.

He should have reminded himself that he hadn't liked Arthur Pendragon for a reason, that the man had faults, and was often impossible, capricious, temperamental, entitled. But he didn't feel like that anymore. Now he could see a different picture and first impressions, however enduring, could also be corrected by getting to know the other person better.

That or he was besotted. (Which he'd rather think he wasn't because he had a dignity and didn't want to rank among the star-struck hordes of Pendragon fans.)

Going back to work wasn't hard either; if anything the burden was lighter. There were no changes to their filming routine, the hours were still long and sometimes they did have to do the same scene over and over again till they were all about to drop, but having to look forward to the nights – though not all of them were spent with Arthur – motivated him more and made the days go by more quickly. (Merlin wanted to appeal to the Einstein theory of time not being a constant, though he was sure good old Albert hadn't had Arthur Pendragon in mind when he'd formulated it.)

Metaphorically speaking, he was walking on sunshine, and no, he wasn't quoting songs, it was how it felt. As if everything had the potential to make him smile, as if everything could be borne.

“You look chipper,” Elena said one morning as one of the ladies from wardrobe fixed the buttons of his ambulance driver uniform.

Merlin didn't know why. Today he'd have to shoot a very emotional scene full of foreshadowing. A scene he'd mentally dubbed as the 'Tourniquet Scene'. Basically a young soldier would die under his hands – or Daniel's as it happened – while he was trying to save him. The 'Tourniquet Scene' would involve lots of artificial blood and frequent costume changes, since fake blood or no, the same one couldn't be used again once it got sprayed.

“Nice weather,” Merlin answered, looking down at his cuffs.

Elena wasn't buying it. “You're playing a highly draining scene,” she said. “Nervous break down material and yet you look how Tom the Cat would if he'd feasted on Jerry.”

“My God, you're destroying my childhood happy memories like that!”

“Merlin...”

“I'm glad I get to play a scene like that.”

Elena scrutinised him and was just about to put another question to him, when Drake advanced towards them, escorted by a man wearing a costume similar to Merlin's.

Given the visual hint, Merlin was sure that this was the man who played his fellow officer, James.

He was more or less Merlin's height, his hair was dark, like his eyes, though the first thing anybody would notice about him was the fact that he was out of this world handsome. But then again Ms Lake had cast people who were easy on the eyes, like Arthur and Elena, and now this one, so no surprise.

“This is Gwaine Strong,” Drake said. “He's going to play...”

Merlin pre-empted him, “Let me guess, James.”

Drake seemed glad to see Merlin was being welcoming. He suspected Arthur wouldn't be or hadn't been, depending on whether he'd met the new cast member or not.

“Nice to meet you two,” Gwaine said to both Elena, kissing her hand, and Merlin.

Elena flashed Merlin a look, Merlin couldn't decipher, but then he had no time to, for Drake said, “Pepare to shoot in five.”

“So you're playing James.”

Gwaine smiled rakishly. “Yes, I always get cast in action roles.”

Merlin laughed along.

Elena took Gwaine's statement with good-humour. Usually she disliked men going about trying to be macho, but Gwaine had panache and she had obviously forgiven him already. “I wonder why,” she said.

“I wouldn't know,” he started. “But it's going to be a pleasure to work with you two. I saw Panic”. This was the low budget film Elena had shot last year. It had been a horror film and she'd said she's had enormous amounts of fun, running around screaming. Being low budget, it had only attracted a tiny audience. Apparently Gwaine had seen it. “And Debunked,” he said, turning to look at Merlin. Obviously he'd also watched Merlin's play.

“Really?”

“You looked interesting with your head shaved.”

Merlin wanted to bury his head in his hands. “I bet.”

“You have gorgeous eyes; I'm sure they stood out more.”

“Like my ears,” Merlin said.

Gwaine leant forward to murmur, “They are cute, the ears.”

Thankfully the extra playing the dying man was put in place and Myror came up to herd Merlin and Gwaine up to their marks.

Merlin knelt on the muddy patch of ground that had been prepared to look like a field of battle.

Gwaine did the same opposite him.

The sounds of automatic machine-gun fire would be added in post-production by the Foley people, so Merlin had to imagine all of that going on – the sounds of war. He would have to focus on the fear, the absence of hope but for that tiny memory of one man he'd held in his arms, while he struggled to stay alive, one day at a time, grit his teeth and save this man today.

The man's death would prefigure more of the film's themes as well, making the viewer draw parallels.

Getting into character was draining, but Merlin had a sense it was going to be worth it, so he let despair wash over him.

“Roll sound, roll camera, background action. Action!”

“Please,” the wounded man screamed. “I don't want to die. Please!”

_Daniel inspected the young man, looking for the wound. He could see the pools of blood but not where it came from. He ripped open the trousers, hands trembling, finding the soldier, a young sergeant, was losing litres of it, blood that was staining his own hands._

_Looking at the bared leg, he understood were the problem stemmed from; the sergeant's femoral artery was torn along its length, blood gushing forth uninterruptedly. It was clear they had minutes, less than._

_“Tourniquet?” he asked of James, his fellow medic officer._

_“Yes and quick,” James agreed. “We're losing him fast. Pulse is thready.”_

_He placed the tourniquet around the limb, a few inches from the edge of the jagged wound. In a well practised choreography, James put a stick on it while Daniel tied a full knot over it._

_James twisted the stick quickly so that the device closed around the terribly injured limb._

_They were being perfect and fast. The bleeding was diminishing, but something went wrong, for James announced that he couldn't feel a pulse anymore._

_“No!”_

_“Daniel.” James clamped his hand around Daniel's busy hand._

_“I can – I can do something. Let me loop the ends.”_

_James squeezed. “Dan, we'll die too. We're under enemy fire.”_

_“No, I can't.”_

_James growled and dragged him under cover, kicking and screaming that he could._

“That was superb!” Drake said, waving his hands about.

But however superb that one scene, Merlin's day wasn't over.

They re-shot the tourniquet scene three times and when he was done, he had a break and then had to wait to film his other main scene of the day, the symbolic scene in the rain.

He went to his trailer, cleaned himself up, changed into his new costume, a white shirt and trousers, and met Arthur outside it.

They'd have to move and hug in the rain in the dark, Arthur burying his head in Merlin's shoulder, clinging tight as though he'd never let go. The stark contrast between the darkness – the shot would be manipulated to make it look like night – and their back-lit white shirts would serve to convey a mood and meaning.

This scene was perhaps gentler than the previous one, but highly emotional too. And so very difficult to get right. The right amount of pain and longing to be conveyed was difficult to judge. It had to be ethereal and yet the human element shouldn't be forgotten.

More so they had been told not to force an interpretation of it, and acting without any idea as to what message one wanted to push wasn't on Merlin's list of easy things to do.

By the end of it, Merlin was the one who was leaning his head against Arthur's shoulder, grabbing his shirt. “I just want to go to the hotel and relax,” he said.

He could feel Arthur's chest rumble with quiet laughter. “I think I have an idea for tonight.”

“As interesting as that might sound,” Merlin said, “I'm not sure any part of me is up to it.”

“You'll see, Merlin,” Arthur said.

Arthur kept his promise of a quiet evening. He invited Merlin to his room, and just when Merlin would have kissed him, initiated something at the very least, he pushed him onto his suite's living room sofa and put on a DVD.

“A film?” Merlin asked, not really looking forward to anything to do with the world of cinematic wonders for a night.

Arthur pushed the player's play button and clomped back to the sofa, stretching his legs over Merlin's.

“This is a special film,” he said, as the theme song, all instrumentals, filled the room.

Merlin clued into what he was watching only when a beautiful blond woman, classy and alluring, appeared on screen. This was an Ygraine du Bois film.

Merlin remembered his mum watching it on the telly when he was a kid. When he was older he'd watched it of his own volition, wanting to learn something about cinematic genres. He'd always believed he had to have an idea in case he was asked to play according to a particular one.

If you were to base your impression of the film on the plot alone, then you'd come back thinking this was a romantic melodrama.

Ygraine du Bois' acting choices had elevated it above that; it was the drama of a woman who became more and more detached from reality, her pursuit of her love turning into an obsession that gave meaning to her sterile life. Her performance angle cast doubts on the concept of love as the sole driving force behind women's lives, instead offering a portrayal of a woman's slow descent into madness that was chilling to watch. There was an unmistakeable echo of Dreyer's Gertrud to the film and Arthur's mum and the direction had made it possible.

When the credits rolled, Merlin said, “She was fantastic.”

Arthur's eyes were wet; he hadn't been crying and wouldn't, he was proud like that, Merlin knew. He would never show weakness unless it was for a role. “Much better than her son.”

“Arthur,” Merlin began, laying his hand on Arthur's knee. “You can't compare careers or acting roles, it's pointless.”

“I want...” Arthur said slowly as though the words were difficult to form or had got stuck in his throat. “I want to be as good as her. That's my aim, if you will. I'll do anything it takes to. I know she's dead, but I would like to think I'd make her proud.”

“She would be,” Merlin said, dismissing the idea of kissing Arthur. This wasn't about that. “Take today. You were... Thomas through and through.”

Arthur heard the praise but Merlin wasn't sure he considered it honest. Arthur could brag with the best of them, but Merlin had the nagging suspicion that he didn't quite believe what he was selling, that he would never trust anyone's positive comments. It probably came with the territory of being the offspring of a screen legend, and a dead screen legend at that. “No, she had this quality... I never had. Even my father says I don't.”

“He's mistaken,” Merlin said, believing it. Maybe some of Arthur's performances in the past had left something to be desired, but what he was doing everyday with Merlin was beyond competent. There was more of Ygraine in him than Arthur believed. He made Merlin better, too.

Arthur dropped the remote even though the only image camping large on the TV was this bouncy yellow screen-saver kind of image. “He resents me for surviving. He lost her and got me instead. Not a fair trade, I acknowledge.” He let his arm dangle over the edge of the sofa. “Now though I'm starting to understand where he was coming from.”

“She was–”

“Not that, Merlin.”

“You..."

He curled up and forward, tilted Merlin's chin up and kissed him deep and slow.

 

****

There was only a week left of their shoot in Prague, Arthur concluded when he caught a glimpse of his schedule on his PDA.

The past weeks had flown by so quickly, Arthur had barely noticed time was passing. He was having the time of his life, feeling as though a burden had been lifted from off his shoulders. It could have been because he was hearing less from Father, who was in London, less of his constantly formal critiques of everything concerning his own self.

But he had an inkling it might have been because he was having regular sex of the non-anonymous kind too. Not that he'd been partnerless for long, but it had never lasted more than a few days, Sophia having stuck with him the longest.

He and Merlin...

The desire hadn't waned after. If anything, he wanted more. He wanted him when he was doing other things and was inappropriate. He wanted him when he woke up and Merlin wasn't there because they needed to keep it hushed. He wanted him when he woke up and Merlin was there. Then he would kiss his lips, then down his chest, and take him in his mouth.

He wanted him when the cameras tracked his every move and every fake kiss aspired to be a real one.

And there was more; Merlin made him laugh. He deconstructed everything, was ready to take nothing too seriously, always having a retort ready that would bring a smile to Arthur's face, though Arthur acted as though Merlin was annoying him.

Experiencing things for the first time with him was always different, memorable, nothing boring, everything a journey. He found himself doing things he hadn't dreamt of doing before, like facing the crowds and playing tourist in Prague, smiling and giving autographs when people recognised him despite strategic baseball caps, fake accents and sunglasses. Merlin was with him, a step behind, not yet a household name, though some promotional pictures of the film had been released and his face was starting to be less anonymous than before.

One day they rented a car, no driver, and drove up to a Bohemian town called Český Krumlov.

They wandered around, Arthur doing very little to hide, Merlin dragging him inside improbable tourist shops, saying. “I want souvenirs. I need souvenirs. Gwen would never forgive me if I got home empty-handed.”

“And you want to hand-pick them?” Arthur asked, incredulous. He'd worked with actors who at the first chance would latch onto their PAs and do nothing without them, down to getting bottles of water or coffee cups.

“Sure,” Merlin said, picking up ridiculous T-shirts, key-rings, or mugs. He bought a ton of the stuff too, including garish hand-painted ceramic plates, mugs, teddy-bears, two snow globes, in case one broke, and a truly horrible, though not intentionally so, silver bracelet for Gwen.

Enamoured of the T-shirt that had 'I heart the Czech Republic' written across it, Merlin asked to be pointed to the fitting rooms, where he shed his normal jumper and put it on while the cashier looked at Arthur dreamily, exhaling loudly from time to time and asking him whether he was sure he wanted nothing. Arthur shook his head 'no'.

Merlin re-emerged, wearing the shirt. He was handed three carrier bags full of things Arthur would have deemed only good for the rubbish bin.

“You're mad. You're insane,” he said, as Merlin raced him to the car, bags bouncing. They needed to put Merlin's purchases in the boot or they wouldn't be able to walk around so easily.

When they got to their rental car, Merlin was out of breath and flushed and Arthur just had to. He made him drop the bags, Merlin screeching, “Watch out, the snow globes.” And just kissed him, long and involved, tongue tangling with Merlin's.

Merlin responded fully, so he found himself backed up against the boot, dreaming of car sex, Merlin virtually eating his face.

And then the recognisable click-click of a camera snapping away at them. He froze. He froze and pushed Merlin back in time to see a guy armed with a professional camera, zoom lenses and all, legging it.

“Fuck,” he shouted, kicking at the car's wheel.

“It was just a kiss,” Merlin said, reaching out.

Arthur shrugged him off. “You,” he said, “don't know them. Give them 24 hours and it'll be all over the internet!”

Merlin's face fell. “And even if it is... They don't have a say.”

“No,” Arthur admitted, feeling like he wanted to be alone. They'd ruined everything, everything like they always did. This Merlin thing, it was meant to be his. “Neither do I though.”

“You can't choose what people will think.”

“If I were,” he began, having a list of reasons lined up that supported his opinion of this being bad.

But Merlin wouldn't listen to that.

“You're not.”

And wasn't that the truth. Arthur wasn't a bloke like any other.

Naturally, Arthur hadn't been wrong when he'd predicted that the news and the candids would be all over in twenty-four hours.

The next morning he had the bad idea of googling himself and found a sequence of shots picturing the kiss. There was no mistake about it being him. He had shed his sunglasses and everything. The captions were frankly irritating, too.

By nightfall his face had appeared on four rags' covers, the headlines ranging from: **Arthur Pendragon's Romance with Costar** , to **Arthur Gay for Merlin Emrys** , and from Fantasy Seeps into Reality to **The Secrets Behind Casting Choices.**

He bought the pile and read all the articles. The first one was really stupid, making everything sound like a fairy tale. He could survive it. The second was all speculation about his sex life, a few of the facts mentioned were real enough, while others could have been part of a script they were so extravagant.

The third was just nothing but the pictures, with a few comments scribbled underneath.

He'd sue the author of the fourth one.

This would-be journalist maintained he had inside knowledge of the casting process and was informing his readers of the fact that Merlin had been chosen for the lead role because he'd been Arthur's boy-toy from before filming began. Which was not only untrue but slanderous.

He tore the page away, crumpled it and tossed it as far away from him as possible. This wasn't only ridiculing him; it might destroy Merlin's career, sink it before it had properly began. The worst was that a lot of people might believe it and some of them would belong to the film industry.

That was when he started receiving a series of increasingly frequent texts from Father. He deleted them all.

The last week of shooting was like an episode of the Twilight Zone, everybody looking at him as if he were an alien from Mars, everybody behaving in a polite and strained way towards both him and Merlin.

There was no rule that said he couldn't sleep with a colleague, but he knew people were judging and finding his conduct unprofessional.

He knew some were probably inclined to believe the rumour about Merlin having being cast after he with him. Hadn't he hinted at the same thing once?

Elena had come up and told him, “I'm so sorry it was leaked that way.”

Drake acted as though he didn't know. When Arthur approached him to ask him if he was all right with 'it', Drake went on about how, “Such chemistry must find an outlet and I don't care which kind it is as long as I can keep recording moments like that.”

He showed Arthur the embracing in the rain moment that would be the film's finale.

Cedric leered.

Gwaine said, “Good for you. Good for you.”

An unknown crew member sold an interview with a tabloid about Arthur's promiscuous lifestyle and lascivious behaviour on set. There was some speculation as to his and Merlin sex scenes in the film; this person let people understand they were as real as they looked.

This could go either way: damage the film, or sell more tickets.

This project had been perfect, had given him a precious challenge. Now he wanted it to be over.

In this depressing new mood, the shooting in Prague wrapped up. They would have a couple more weeks in London and then the production phase would be over.

One rainy afternoon they were all carted to the airport. He was waiting for their flight back to London when he received a text from Morgana.

Casting Director of Catch my Eye rang me. They're not signing you anymore.

He rose from his first class lounge seat and stole outside to phone Morgana. “What's this about them dropping me?”

Morgana sounded put upon when she answered, “I'll give you three guesses.”

“The kiss?”

“I think it's what it must be. I'd scheduled an appointment for the day after tomorrow. You were meant to sign then. The last I heard from this casting person was that they were overjoyed to have you. Then yesterday I get this call from him and he's saying they have new budget restrictions and are going for someone else.”

Arthur wanted to crush his mobile. “That's not true.”

“I know,” she agreed. She sounded as if she was really sorry for him. “It was a bullshit excuse.”

This was what led him to storm into the offices of Kingdom Productions to have a frank chat with Bayard King, the executive producer of Catch My Eye. “I could sue you for breach of contract,” Arthur said, more a threat than a real intention.

Bayard met him halfway between the door and his desk. “Let's not be hasty,” he said. “There was only a verbal agreement.”

“Which was witnessed by at least three people,” Arthur said, as Bayard accompanied Arthur to a chair. Then Bayard took the one behind the desk and operated the intercom to tell his secretary that he didn't want to be disturbed. “We can claim budget reasons,” he told Arthur, poker faced.

“I could agree to a fee reduction.”

Bayard started playing with the cap of his fountain pen. “Arthur.”

“It was the scandal, wasn't it?”

“It's not what you think,” Bayard said.

As opposed to Bayard, Arthur wasn't fidgeting. Father had taught him a few useful tactics over the years; never presenting a weak front was one of them. “I think you're shunting me because I was proved to be bisexual.”

Bayard pretended to relax, plastering a fake smile on his face. “Please, Arthur there's a higher percentage of gay or bi people in the film and arts industry than there is in any other business environment. Don't play that card.”

“I don't believe you,” Arthur said, and this at least was the truth. The sequence of events was proof that he'd hit on the right assumption.

Bayard rose and walked up to the window. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “You think it's prejudice, Arthur; I say it's cynicism. Sex sells. If you add a steamy sex scene to a feature, you'll get more viewers, unless you're Disney. People go to the cinema to escape from reality. They like to believe that what they see on screen is not only possible but somehow real. If they see a couple on screen, they like to imagine that it could be possible.”

Arthur saw where this was going, but decided to listen till the end.

“And if they know for a fact that you're actually sleeping with person X of the same gender, there won't be any suspension of disbelief.”

Arthur croaked a laugh. “Please, the same could be said of married couples. It doesn't stop anyone from getting married.”

“No,” Bayard said, turning around, “But some actors choose to marry late; others understand that it will limit their career choices, some hide their relationships from the limelight. And some invent relationships that don't even exist to promote a film, so the papers will go, 'It's all real' and more tickets are sold. As I said, it's not prejudice. It's marketing.”

Arthur found himself standing without having planned to move, “That's...”

“Right now you're not marketable as the lead in a rom-com, Arthur.”

“This is in no way honourable or fair.”

Bayard said, “On the other hand your other picture might benefit. Though this could damage your friend's career. The rumours concerning him were more...”

“I didn't even know his name!”

“And I believe that,” Bayard said, walking over to Arthur to place a hand on his shoulder. “But how many people will?”

Saying that Arthur went back home with rage, hurt and anger at everything and everyone welling inside him would have trivialised his feelings.

But maybe the point was that he couldn't understand them fully. There was this bright goal he'd always been able to envision clearly. This thing he'd always wanted and that he'd never lost sight of. He'd worked hard and striven and tried, hoping he'd get there in time, make Father see. And he felt like his work of years had been blown away like a house of cards.

Then there was this man he might have damaged without wanting to and that had hurt him in return by being nothing other than accepting.

He resented him for having made him lower his guard, for having forced his hand.

And there was father's answering machine's message. A curt, “You've compromised everything, Arthur. Shame on you. What would your mother say?”

And this image of her rejecting him, burnished golden and bright in his mind's eye, tore at him.

"Arthur," Merlin's worried voice sounded behind him. He had keys now, had presumably walked in wanting to see Arthur.

Arthur picked up the answering machine and flung it against the wall. It broke, pieces of black and silver plastic becoming missiles and landing everywhere.

Merlin took that in calmly and said, “Okay, you can stop acting like a prima donna. What happened?” The words were casual but Merlin's stance gave away his concern.

“You happened,” Arthur said spitefully. Maybe he'd drunk too much in the time between his meeting with Bayard and Merlin's arrival, but he couldn't quite hold it all in.

When Merlin looked hurt, as if you'd kicked him in the face and torn down his defences, he really projected a soul-wrenching, defenceless air.

Arthur knew he wasn't really, knew Merlin had strength, but for a wild second he enjoyed testing his defences. “You happened and I've lost a lined-up job.”

“Then they're not worth your time.”

Drunkenly, cruelly Arthur said, “What if the contrary is true?” Perhaps he was even saving Merlin's career in the long run, protecting him from his own stupid tendency to rush in where the angels feared to tread.

Merlin squared his shoulders. He didn't hunch in on himself. He didn't cry. He did look hurt, as if Arthur had disappointed him immensely, but while the hurt showed, he never gave up, never bent down.

He scoffed, “Okay. I get it. I get it. Maybe I was right from the beginning, wasn't I? You need constant validation. You need a pat on your shoulder from the world to come to terms with whatever issues you have. But you can't use me.”

“Who said I'd want to use you, Merlin?” he said, watching him flinch.

Merlin took a step back as if he'd been punched.

“Right then. We've come to this. And here I was thinking you were so... such a good man underneath it all. And it's not true. You're not. So it's over as you wanted it to be. For all it matters now.” And his voice did break then. “I'd really fallen for it. I really did, you bastard. You're one good actor.”

He left as he'd come, nearly soundlessly.

****

The girls from make-up had applied copious amounts of a translucent cake foundation to make his skin appear paler. One of the girls laid reddish shadows under his eyes to make them look sunken and his cheeks hollow while another one put blue cream and vaseline on his lips to give them a grey tint.

“You're going to make one sexy dying man,” one joked.

He made an effort to smile.

“Actually you have to die for bone structure,” another one said.

Merlin shifted on the make-up chair.

“That's why he breaks hearts so,” the first one said.

Merlin shot up from his chair. “I've got to go. The DA's calling me.”

Leaving the trio behind, he made his way to studio number six, waiting to be roll-called.

He was hurrying, looking at his feet, not meeting anybody's eyes. By doing that, he might have tripped over a cable and stumbled or bumped into a door or partition. Instead he ran right into Arthur. This was just his luck.

“Merlin,” he said. When Merlin tried to get past him, Arthur grabbed him by the wrist. “Stay, listen. I--”

“I don't want your hands on me,” Merlin said. He didn't want Arthur all over him again, confusing him, making him hunger. “It's enough that you have to touch me for the scene's duration.”

Arthur let go, releasing a sigh. “Merlin, I was so drunk.”

Merlin whipped around. “Yes, you were. But you got what you wanted.” The pitch of his voice was getting higher, so he breathed out and tried to calm himself to no avail.

“Not true,” Arthur said.

“Stop acting, Arthur.”

Drake waved them over. It was time to stage-die.

Merlin laid himself down.

An FX coordinator walked over to him and handed him a capsule. “That's a blood capsule,” he explained. “It's perfectly edible, just chocolate, maple syrup, and red food dye.”

“Sounds tasty,” Merlin said, needing to have a laugh with someone. Arthur was standing by, fixing his stare on him and Merlin just couldn't take it any longer.

The coordinator laughed. “Yeah, anyway when you're, you know.” He mimicked dying. “Just bite down on it and let the chocolate...”

“Trickle out of my mouth Halloween style,” Merlin guessed. He'd had a look at the storyboard.

Arthur tried to give his opinion but Drake called for silence.

Thirty seconds later they were filming, Arthur as Thomas kneeling at his side just like Merlin as Daniel had knelt beside the dying sergeant, holding his hand.

_“I found you,” Thomas said, “I found you.” He bent down, placing his free hand on Daniel's shoulder._

_Daniel coughed, his shirt was washed red with blood, his own this time. “I'm glad,” he managed. “I'm glad. Never wanted to die alone. Looked for you everywhere. Thought each one was you I was saving.”_

_“I'm not letting you go,” Thomas said forcefully, smiling as if he wanted to make Daniel see that everything was fine. “I'm not letting you go.”_

_“A nice lie, but you're going to have to,” Daniel croaked in a feeble voice._

_Thomas squeezed his hands. He buried his nose in his neck and murmured against it. “No, no. We didn't have any bloody time. I was stupid and afraid. What'd they'd say, who I'd be. No, it's not fair. I didn't make it fair.”_

_“Thomas.” He coughed. Blood trickled down his chin, a contrast to his grey skin. Thomas kissed his lips, slow and lingering, not caring about the blood at all. He let his fingers trail up Daniel's neck, tapping the side of his temple, their code, their past. “Dan.”_

_Daniel returned the pressure, squeezed his hand back and died in his arms._

_“Love you, Dan,” Thomas said. And sobbed out his sorrow over the other man's body._

“And that's a wrap,” Drake said, sounding properly elated.

Merlin pushed Arthur away from him a little more violently than he should have and wiped at his dirty chin.

Hurt washed over Arthur's features but then he stiffened. “Are you sure it's a keeper?” Arthur asked Drake.

Drake said, “Yes, I didn't write in the 'I love you' line because I thought it would cheapen the dialogue but you sold it to me. Great ad-libbing.”

Arthur's eyes flicked over to Merlin.

Merlin rubbed at his chin some more. He was sure most of the fake blood was gone, but better safe than sorry. He walked up to Drake then, turning his back on Arthur. He shook his director's hands. After all, barring the heartache, this film had given him a lot. “See you at the wrap party later, then.”

Drake took him in. “Yes, I advise you change though, young man.”

When Merlin was done with Drake, Arthur was being congratulated by the rest of the crew, like the star he was. Merlin marched to his dressing room to have a shower and find a change of clothes. He was emotionally drained, had nothing left to give.

Now that filming was over, he decided he could let go. He'd contemplated skipping the party, but it didn't feel right towards the crew. He could avoid Arthur, get hammered as much as he liked, and wake up to a brand new life.

****

The wrap party for A War Love Affair was held at a posh West End club with a lush red leather interior, white wooden surfaces, strip-club like poles and catwalks, as well as a very furnished bar.

Everybody was there: cast, crew, significant others of the above mentioned cast and crew, journalists – notably a gal from Empire Magazine who was drinking everyone under the table and whose effort to get truly pissed Merlin could appreciate – and random actors who'd been invited by someone from production.

People danced, flirted, chatted each other up, gorged themselves on trays of colourful food that looked too plasticky to be real and imbibed bottle after bottle of quality champagne.

The champagne guzzling had begun when Elena had toasted the director, Gwaine had imitated her, and then everything had gone a little downhill as far as Merlin was concerned.

As Drake thanked the group and told them he'd had a very great experience, Merlin befriended the bartender and managed to absorb a great quantity of whisky shots and other assorted cocktails. He counted a green, an orange and a red one.

Arthur had tried to walk over to him a couple of times, but Merlin couldn't really face him.

Tomorrow a new phase of his existence would begin. He'd go back to auditioning for theatre roles, and see where it took him. In the meanwhile, he'd drink himself stupid, and forget he'd been so gullible as to fall for Arthur's film star veneer.

At the other end of the club, someone had asked the cast to take photos and had made Arthur a prisoner.

However someone else had escaped from the clutches of the picture-obsessed set designer and had ambled over to Merlin. “Hello, Merlin.”

“Helloooo, Gwaine,” Merlin said, giving him a military salute. They'd been playing soldiers. It wasn't so vastly inappropriate.

“Yeah, I'm drunk too,” Gwaine owned up.

Merlin passed him his drink. “Try this one,” he said. "There's mint and something else in it.” In fact it was so very bottle green, Merlin was sure there had to be a joke in it.

Gwaine drank from his glass, licked at his lips and then gulped down the whole thing. “Not bad,” he said.

“But now I have none left!”

Gwaine grew thoughtful. “I know you're supposed to get arseholed at a wrap-party, but I suspect there's something more to it.”

“Bad decisions,” Merlin mumbled. “I fancied there was this... thing and then it was just... not real. The magic of cinema.” He paused. “It was real for me.”

Gwaine shook his head. Since he'd shot his last scene in Prague, he'd let his beard grow a little. “I could play clueless,” he said voice husky and gentle, “but I guess I won't. He doesn't deserve you.”

With his and Arthur faces on cheap magazine covers, Merlin hadn't really thought that people didn't know, but nobody had been as direct as Gwaine. “You say that because you flirt with every breathing thing.” That side of Gwaine's personality hadn't escaped Merlin; in Prague Merlin had often run into Gwaine with a beautiful creature on his arm.

“It's true that I like you.”

Hurrah for honesty. “You want to get laid?” Merlin had to make sure, he was just that drunk.

“I want you, yes.”

“I shouldn't.” Merlin drummed his fingers on the bar.

“I won't force your hand,” Gwaine said. And he wasn't. He wasn't leaning forward, or copping a feel. He was just being handsome and easy. Not complicated like Arthur, no tangle of feelings like in Arthur's case. No blowing hot and cold.

Merlin decided to test this. He hauled himself to his feet, stepped between Gwaine's legs and took his mouth in a mint-flavoured kiss. When he drew back, he met Arthur's eyes over Gwaine's head.

Arthur had balled both hands into fists and stopped dead in his tracks. He flushed in anger, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Merlin would have said, “I'm sorry,” would have supplied reasons for the way he was acting, but he recalled Arthur's allusions to using him and was floored by it all over again. He let Gwaine take him to his place.

They kissed in the cab, Merlin drunken and sloppy, Gwaine equally sloshed but more refined. Gwaine kissed as if he were a master kisser, open and wet, a slick slide, but not too much.

They gave a bit of a show for the cab-driver, who cursed, wanted to be paid quickly, and drove off with a screech of tires in the night.

At Gwaine's, Merlin was slammed against the first available wall and kissed to within an inch of his life, his throat branded and his shirt ripped open.

This was the best sex Merlin had ever had, technically better than Arthur – and oh hello washboard abs and beard burn – and Merlin's heart should have been somersaulting in his chest and doing funny things to him. It might have been that his reactions were being dulled by the alcohol he'd swallowed, but while he was turned on, he wasn't thrilled.

When he was pressed on the bed, and a hand was wrapped hot and sure around him, he could only swallow and say, “No, it's not... I'm sorry. No.”

Gwaine stopped as if burned, leaning over him, head propped on his hand, elbow planted on the mattress. He had his elegant dark trousers still on; his shirt, white and perfectly starched, was opened all the way.

There was enough to salivate, but all Merlin could say was, “I'd be doing it for all the wrong reasons.”

“As long as it isn't vengeance, I'm on board,” Gwaine told him, running his eyes down the length of Merlin's body. “If you haven't noticed, I like you, Merlin.”

“Gwaine, I…” he began, though he wasn't sure that sentence was going anywhere. He made no sense to himself either. On the one hand, there was this perfectly prattish, perfectly dickish man who had dismissed him as if he were nothing; on the other there was a perfectly handsome, perfectly gentle knight in shining armour who really liked him, no grudge attached.

“If I had you, Merlin, I wouldn't...” Merlin placed his hand on Gwaine's mouth to stop him from speaking harshly of Arthur.

When he was sure Gwaine had figured it out, he let go and gave Gwaine a peck. “I could get you off to make up for the trouble or if you're really annoyed, I could go home.”

Gwaine pushed him back on the bed and said ever so sweetly, though his voice was low and rough, “Sleep it off here; I'll take the sofa.”

Merlin thanked him.

“Good night, Merlin,” Gwaine said, turning the light off.

****

 

Myrddin Productions would distribute the film within the UK, but to get a chance to be part of the Oscar race this year, Jonathan Drake needed an American distributor. If he wasn't sure he had a simple and touching product that honestly stood a chance of being rewarded with the golden statuette, he wouldn't have bothered. He might have spared himself the trouble if he hadn't emerged from the editing room with something that made him -- the man who'd shot the thing -- cry like a newborn baby.

From the very first moment he'd been sure the script was good and his casting sound, but the certainty he experienced when he got out of the editing room was something of an entirely different nature. (The editor had been bawling and if the editor was, the audience would probably be moved to tears and beyond.)

This conviction was what moved him to board a plane in order to knock on a series of distributors' doors in both L.A and New York.

Despite the UK premiere, which had featured the absence of one of the leads – involved as he was in a theatre production of Romeo and Juliet in which he played Mercutio – but had been extremely successful from any other point of view, Drake hadn't been very lucky in California.

While the critical acclaim at home had been mind-blowing in some circles (Stephen Fry had blogged about the film), but for some reviewers who were attacking Drake personally, the same could not be said for the other side of the pond.

The standard answer his search for a distributor had met had been: “Your movie features a graphic homoerotic sex scene; it's not mainstream.”

His film was turned down by five different companies and another one proposed a deal that frankly wouldn't cut it and which included editing rights on the final product. Drake had spewed fire getting out of that particular meeting.

Almost losing hope to find his film picked up, marketed and sold in the US, Drake was getting dejected.

He'd fallen foul of some film industry moguls because of his refusal to cut and adapt the thing to the US market's exigencies.

That's when he became even more obstinate to secure a deal to show his work. He found himself a couple of shark-like sales representatives, a young determined agent, and hired a law firm and young consultants who knew everything about the marketing of foreign films.

One of his American representatives finally phoned him one evening telling him that a New York Distribution company was very interested in what they had to sell.

Morgause Taylor and Cenred Lord were husband and wife and the proud owners of Double Swords Distributions.

One afternoon in early April, Morgause welcomed Drake in her own slick Tribeca office. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Drake,” she said, voice soft and modulated, smoky eyes lingering approvingly on Drake. “My husband and I watched the master,” she said.

This was usually the point where Drake was politely shown the door.

“I see,” he said non-committally.

She opened a file on her computer, mucked with it, and smiled a Mona Lisa smile. “And we're very competitive, my husband and I,” she said, a self-satisfied smirk gracing her features. She'd have been lovely but for that, blond flowing locks, deep eyes, and delicate nose, ensuring she'd otheriwise be considered a beauty.

“Which means?”

“That we'd be glad to blow the competition out of the water,” she answered. “This movie deserves an aggressive marketing strategy. Wouldn't you agree?”

“Certainly. So you're...”

“Picking it up. We'll do promotional junkets, interviews, the Tribeca film festival, get your stars a spot on the Tonight Show.”

Drake exhaled. He was celebrating inside. “That'll be fantastic.”

“We'll be finding a viable niche for it to thrive as it should; we'll also need your stars over here to get them to do the appropriate promotion. It's part of their contracts, right?”

Drake paled a little. “Pendragon isn't busy at the moment and is going to be available; you can have Ms Prince as well. As for Mr Emrys, I'm afraid he's gone back to the theatre.”

“Those two will suffice,” Morgause said, though her brows were knitted in a show of suspicion. “We can wrap an aura of mystery around our young, MIA, Brit celebrity...” She was planning ahead already. “Leave the selling to us,” she said aggressively.

Drake left her office sure that Morgause was both dangerous and unstoppable, feeling lucky he had her on his side and not against him.

 

****

Oscar night was electrifying, every actor's dream. It was such a mind-blowing experience nobody could really get used to it, the most glittering occasion you would ever be part of.

Actresses of exceptional beauty sashayed on the red carpet in their gorgeous gowns, wearing glitzy jewellery clearly worth millions, escorted by huge bodyguards paid to protect it and them with their lives.

Their male counterparts did their best to look equally dashing and handsome in their tailored ensembles.

Seasoned stars, up and coming starlets, young and trim significant others paraded on the red carpet under the eyes of hundreds of screeching fans, amped up reporters and the entire world since the event was televised almost everywhere on the planet.

Fashion analysts were ready to pounce on any celeb's style faux pas; film experts were reviewing the merits of each nominee.

Limousines stopped and spewed forth herds of famous and less famous individuals, the noise level astonishing.

It was a whirlwind of glitter, silk, lace, mikes, camera flashes, hysterical giggles, shouts.

Actors were herded this way and that, stopped to be asked, “What are you wearing?” and “How do you feel about being nominated for...?”

Hopes were about to be crowned or dashed, careers made or unmade. Today you could be a nobody, tomorrow a member of the hall of fame.

Arthur had been there once before, but he was still left reeling, having spent all morning and early afternoon being groomed to look better than he ever had before. He'd been assisted into a bespoke evening jacket, had been lent cuff-links worth an arm and a leg by a world-famous jewellery designer, and his hair had been over-combed and over-styled. He'd also had to say no to highlights because it'd have felt stupid, but that was another story.

And now on the red carpet he was being asked inane questions. How would you feel if A War Love Affair won? (He hadn't been asked how he'd feel if he himself did because he hadn't been nominated as best actor because of a company strategy pushing only one candidate per film in the hopes that if they didn't divide the Academy's attention they'd get more Oscars.) He'd answered that he hoped they would, had offered a small smile, said he was naturally biased, but he'd watched the other nominated films and had loved them all.

Talk about being diplomatic.

He was asked why he was solo. He smiled again, and answered he was sadly dateless, then proceeded to flirt with the interviewer to deflect the attention.

And then Merlin appeared, dinner jacket and slackened black tie around his neck, and Arthur's world stopped again.

Eight months.

He hadn't seen him or talked to him in eight months. In those months he'd taught himself to sneer at the thought of Merlin. He'd told himself he was worth nothing, not his time, not his heart, and certainly he wasn't the cause for that hollow feeling that had lodged within him, not to be shaken, ever since wrap party night.

He'd been the one that had broken them, true. He was perfectly aware of what he'd done. How scathing and cruel and plainly spoilt he'd been. But Merlin had been quick to recover, hadn't he?

Kissing Gwaine, leaving the wrap party with him. It left no room for speculation. The message had been clear.

Still, Arthur had sought confirmation of it on the tabloids, hoping someone would mention Gwaine Strong and Merlin Emrys being a couple. A stray line in a gossip rag, something, but there had been nothing, and Arthur had hoped the relationship had floundered along the way, gone up in smoke and ashes like his and Merlin's had.

Maybe he should have wished them well. He couldn't. (If he'd been honest, he'd have acknowledged that he couldn't because he wanted Merlin for himself, but it was a consideration he let himself entertain only in the wee hours, when he was alone in the dark and that he steadfastly repressed every morning.)

Merlin had been skilfully avoiding him too, doing virtual promotional acrobatics not to be there when he was. A skipped premiere, claiming he was on stage. Then he'd do the interview Arthur couldn't make because he was auditioning for his next big picture. (That Arthur had got the role after A War Love Affair was nominated for Best Picture hadn't made it any better.) Arthur would see Jonathan Ross. Merlin would take care of giving the general press interviews. And as for the rest, Merlin was being the RSC's Mercutio, applauded by all and sundry.

Arthur had gone to see him too. And by the time he'd rasped, “A plague on both your houses,” he'd stolen Arthur's breath away and made of Romeo an insignificant little addition.

And now here he was, answering the formulaic questions being put to him by the press. “How does it feel like to be here for the first time, Merlin?”

“It's great.” Merlin was less rehearsed but no less diplomatic than Arthur.

“And you are looking very handsome today. Can you tell us what are you wearing?”

A floundering glance at his PA and Merlin said, “Dolce & Gabbana.”

Arthur was sure the next question would be as fatuous as the previous one, when Merlin was asked, “I see that you have a date.”

Arthur turned around to see that in fact he had. He'd been expecting to spy Gwaine, who having a minor role wouldn't have been invited tonight but as Merlin's plus one, when he realised that, no, there was no Gwaine here. Gwaine was with Elena Prince. Merlin's date was a young woman with curly hair and warm smile. It was the Gwen Arthur had heard so much of and Arthur felt sure Gwen wasn't Merlin's girlfriend.

If Arthur's heart lurched in his chest at that, it was nothing.

And then the most politically incorrect, tactless question Arthur had ever heard was put to Merlin.

“Merlin, we all know you had a Prague fling with Arthur Pendragon. There have been rumours lately insinuating that it was a publicity stunt...”

Merlin tottered and went a terrible shade of pasty grey. Arthur was about to stop that and stalk up to them, since he was concerned as well, when he heard Merlin's answer. “Publicity stunt? No. It was all true and real and...” Merlin saw him then. He looked pained, as if the recolleection had touched him to the quick. He swallowed more than once, a nervous tick he'd never displayed before. Was he ashamed of them? “And I guess I fell in love. These things happen all the time and you can't stop them.”

Blast Merlin for his ability to wear his heart on his sleeve. Arthur found himself almost hyperventilating, wishing he could undo his tie, or go over there and kiss that lost expression away from Merlin's face. Gwaine forgotten, his resentment forgotten and all that was left was the huge, warm thing that had been playing havoc with him ever since, ever since he'd let himself be charmed by Merlin.

And in a flash he remembered all that had been good between them, the nights, the kisses, the fun, the smiles, the stupid 'I heart the Czech Republic' t-shirt and understood. Seriously figured out what had happened to him, what he'd done even after he'd realised, what he'd lost thanks to a stupid moment and what he maybe could have again. If he hadn't cocked it up irreversibly.

A FOX journalist spotted him and invited him to join in on the Merlin interview since they were co-stars. Gently, he said, “Hi, Merlin,” and smiled so dopily Merlin might have thought he was truly stoned.

After that interview inanity, they were being shepherded inside the Kodak Theatre.

In the foyer, Arthur took Merlin aside then and said, “Can I have a word?”

Gwen looked at him, then at Merlin and only moved over when Merlin reassured her it would be okay if he was left alone with Arthur.

“Would it matter if I said 'no'?” Merlin asked when Gwen had disappeared in the theatre.

“You owe it to me,” Arthur pointed out. “I was a bastard to you, true. But you consoled yourself with Gwaine soon after.” He made a show of looking around for the man. “Where is he, by the way?”

Merlin played with his mother-of-pearl buttons and said, “I never slept with him. I never was with him.”

“Merlin, you...”

“Had a grope,” said Merlin. “A drunken grope and stopped. And do you know why I stopped?” Merlin asked, suddenly in Arthur's face. “Because I had Mr Gorgeous in bed and I couldn't stop thinking of you.”

Arthur laughed out loud, a little madly. “You said you loved me. You never told me that.”

“I thought you knew.”

Arthur shook his head and grabbed Merlin's hand. “I didn't.”

Merlin sounded furious when he said, “It was really, really obvious. But then again if I didn't say it, it was because you never did either and I didn't want to make a fool of myself.”

Someone in the background was calling to them, tapping their watch to show it was getting late.

“But I did tell you,” Arthur said. How could Merlin have missed the message?

“No you didn't.” Merlin was clearly thinking about their meetings in his head. He had this little cute frown that was doing things to Arthur. This explained a few things of the Gwaine shaped variety, Arthur mused.

Arthur helped him out. “The ad-libbed I love you was for you.”

Merlin gave out a high-pitched sound that could have been an aborted peal of laughter. “Then you need to work on your communications skills.” A shadow clouded his face. “But that doesn't erase the things you said. That hurt.”

Arthur touched his fingers to Merlin's neck, over his starched shirt collar. “No, and I have no excuse. I was drunk and angry and thought my dream had just been ripped apart. And I wanted someone to be responsible for it; otherwise it meant I'd gone and ruined it all by myself. But then, then I got it. Well, I had this epiphany. I don't want to live for a dream of my mum's. She'd want me happy. And if Father can't see what it is that makes me so... I'll be glad to muck up and be happy. With you hopefully. Be with me?”

“It's now or never, gentlemen,” the watch tapping person said.

Merlin gave her an alarmed look. “Can I give you the answer later tonight?”

Arthur had waited eight months and thought he'd never have this again. He could face a few hours. “Yes.”

Merlin turned to walk into the theatre. Arthur called after him. “Break a leg, Merlin.”

The night seemed endless. Best Live Action Short. Best Actress in a Supporting Role, Best Animated Feature Film, Dance Performance, Best Actor in a Supporting Role, Musical Number, Best Achievement in Art Direction (they won) Best Motion Picture in a Foreign Language, Best Cinematography (they won again.) He didn't give a damn about the Best Documentary Short category.

And all this while Arthur was sitting next to Merlin, itching to touch him, wanting to have his answer, wanting to know if he'd ruined it all or if he and Merlin could have their little bit of happiness. Instead he was having to clap, smile, clap, exchange a stupid comment with Drake who was sitting on his other side.

He was ready to shout when the show's host started joking about illicit love affairs on set for his stand-up routine. It was a clear dig at him and Merlin. But Merlin cracked up, and if he was acting, he was acting well.

And then the winner of the previous year's Best Actress award marched on the stage and was given a big white envelope, ready to announce who would win this year's Best Actor in a Leading Role award. Merlin was up against two up-and-comers, a fellow Brit in the shape of Colin Firth and George Clooney.

She waited before reading out the contents of the message, leaving time for the cameras to close up on each nominated actor.

Arthur clasped Merlin's hand and Merlin pressed back.

The actress on stage called out, “Merlin Emrys.” And they all jumped up, Drake first, as he had every time one of his team had won.

Merlin mounted the stage on visibly shaky legs, accepted the award, kissed the actress' cheeks and then turned to the podium to give his little thanks speech.

It was a normal and heartfelt one and Arthur was bursting for joy at seeing him up there. Because Merlin deserved it and he wanted Merlin to have everything that would make him happy, even if Arthur had wanted it for himself.

And then Merlin pocketed the slip of paper he'd used as a note to remember the names of those he should thank, lifted up the Oscar, and said, “If I got this it was because I got to act opposite Arthur Pendragon. And, Arthur, for the record. Yes: to everything. Yes. Only next time don't ad-lib it.”

And when Merlin was being musically cued off stage and made his way back to his seat, the first thing he did was kiss Arthur soundly, tears of joy running down his eyes, and if the cameras were on them again, who cared? Let the world see.

“I still do,” Merlin whispered to him. “Never really stopped, even if I didn't say it in so many words.”

(And if their film was that year's Best Picture, it only added to their happiness.)

The End


End file.
